Dreamers in the Shadows
by EstelRaca
Summary: Something marked them when they fell-something old, something inhuman, something patient. Nearly two centuries later, a group of college students try to fix the problems in their own world while being stalked across a dream battleground at night. It wouldn't be so bad if the dreams didn't come with a language, memories, and names... as well as frightening real-world effects.
1. Part One: Welcome

**Disclaimer:** _Les Miserables_ belongs to Victor Hugo.

**Author's Note:** This story will, if continued, be a very long epic. The main focus would be on Les Amis, especially in the beginning, but the majority of the Les Mis characters will at least put in an appearance. It will be plot-oriented, but as currently drafted it will also have romance, including LGBTQIA-inclusive romances. Con crit is always appreciated, both about my writing style and about characterization or Brick details that slipped past me and my beta. If people are interested, please review!

_Part One: Welcome_

Enjolras forces the man—the murderer—to his knees, with strength and surety, knowing what he will have to do.

There isn't any other option. If he allows this man to live, if he allows this one action to go unchecked, the entire barricade will be tainted. Others will follow the murderer's example, doing what's simple and easy instead of what's right and just. Justifying their behavior as for the good of the barricade, for the good of the citizenry overall, and he will not allow that to happen.

He will not allow the revolution to be tainted from the start. Too many good men—too many _friends_—will undoubtedly be sacrificed for that to be allowable.

_All of them sacrificed on the altar of your pointless pride, your lost cause,_ the voice whispers. It is barely audible, just on the edge of hearing, so soft it could be male or female, old or young. In truth it seems the shadows whisper, as no one else seems to react, but Enjolras knows that's not possible. It must be a trick of his mind, though his mind's never been so cruel to him before. Usually Combeferre must be the voice of uncertainty, of hesitation, because Enjolras' own thoughts seem incapable of being so.

Combeferre watches him as he gives the murderer a minute to pray for forgiveness and salvation, to make peace with himself and give any message he must give. Combeferre's face is drawn, his mouth a thin line, his eyes weighted with the knowledge of what they're doing. This night will be hard on all of them, and he knows Combeferre stands willingly at his side, but Enjolras can already see the heavy price the barricade will demand from his friend's heart.

_He'll beg you to stop the killing._ The shadows continue to whisper, rolling in the torchlight as though they've a mind of their own. _He'll hate what you're doing, beg you to finally stop, and die with a half-dozen bayonets in his chest and no hope in his heart, one more forgotten martyr to a lost cause._

"It is a just cause. It is something that will happen, that _must_ happen, and if it does not happen now then at least we will shine as an example for those who follow." The shadow's words are nonsense, speculation at best, dire prophecy at worst. So why does he hear an echo of Combeferre's voice ringing in his head, begging him not to shoot a man that they would gladly call brother at any other time? Why does he see his friend dead—all his friends dead, a succession of pictures gruesome and bloody overlaying the street before him?

The words the shadow speaks are not his, are nothing that his own mind would torment him with. He can feel the fierce scowl pulling at his mouth, and the pistol in his hand moves from the murderer's head to aim at the shadows. If there is another enemy here, one that wishes to undermine him, let it face him directly.

"Enjolras?" Combeferre's hand brushes his arm, hesitant, and there is doubt in Combeferre's eyes, doubt such as Enjolras has never seen before. "Are you all right?"

(_You aim at him still! For God's sake, he could be your brother!_)

The murderer has scrambled to his feet, his hands held up in supplication. "I was just tryin' to help, sir, honest I was, and it won't happen again—"

Wrong. This isn't the way it's supposed to go, this isn't what needs to happen, and Enjolras reaches out again to force the murderer down.

The execution lacks the finesse that it should have had. The shadows and their words broke the flow, turned something that was proper, just and right, into something that feels hurried and awful though no less necessary.

_Not necessary._ The shadows laugh, swirling, surging, creeping into the light where they have no right to be and staining the expressions of the barricade's defenders. Where faith, hope, camaraderie had been there is doubt, fear, disbelief, and blood. So much blood, the gutters running red with it, and for one awful moment every man standing is replaced by a walking corpse. _Not necessary, Enjolras, not right, not remembered. Your name was long forgotten before a Republic was ever built._

"But a Republic was built." Enjolras smiles, staring into the darkest, densest part of the shadows. "You try to mock me, and instead give me hope."

_A Republic was built, and the people still starve._ The shadows laugh. _The people still castigate one another, turn man against man, brother against brother. Nothing has changed. Your deaths mean nothing. Your cause means nothing._

"In that I know you are wrong." Setting his feet firmly, he scans the shadows for signs of whatever creature it is that speaks to him. If he could just find the beast…

"Enjolras, you're frightening the men." Combeferre's hand settles gently on his arm. "Come, I know that must have been difficult for you, but you mustn't allow them to see how shaken you are."

"I'm fine, old friend." Glancing between Combeferre and the shadows, he shakes his head. "It's just… have you been hearing anything… strange?"

"Strange?" Combeferre coughs, and trickles of blood begin to slide from his nose and mouth. "No, I can't say I have. It's rather hard to hear over the pounding of blood in my ears, though. Could you tell me again why I had to die here, Enjolras? Why I had to watch you kill, again and again, the wild angel of death? I seem to have forgotten it…"

Enjolras doesn't cry out as he backs away from the pale, bloody corpse that wears his friend's face. He doesn't allow his hands to tremble as he lifts the gun. "You are not Combeferre. If you were, you would know the answers to the questions you ask. What manner of trickery is this? What games are being played at my expense?"

"No games, Apollo." Arms wrap around him from behind, drag the gun down to point at the street. Grantaire's slurred voice is recognizable, though, and Enjolras can't quite suppress a shiver as breath that smells like blood and absinthe puffs against his cheek. "No games with you. Only Truth. Only Revolution. Only Death. Am I still an acceptable Pylades? Dead at your feet, will you smile just once more at me, so that maybe I can rise and die for you again?"

It hurts. Snippets of conversation, images, thoughts, _feelings_ that haven't happened yet are suddenly crowding his mind, drowning his consciousness, making it hard to sort fact from fiction.

Except for one thing: they fought bravely, for a cause worth all their lives.

Two things, and he snarls as the shadows dance about his feet: his friends would not approve of what is happening here.

The same strength that allowed him to force a man twice his age and likely twice his weight to his feet allows Enjolras to break free from the arms that encircle him. One shot fells the terrible, crying creature with Combeferre's face. Bullets seem to have no effect on the thing that wears Grantaire's shape, however, perhaps because his thorax and abdomen are already liberally sprinkled with gunshot wounds.

"Enjolras, please." Reaching up with one bloody hand, Grantaire whimpers like a lost dog. "Just smile and tell me it was worth it. Tell me you're worth dying for. Tell me you were worth all of our lives."

"_It wasn't for me!_" The words echo in the street, and Enjolras finds his back against the barricade. "You died for the cause! They all died for the cause! For freedom! For the people! For the Republic! Whatever devil you are, you do Grantaire and the rest a grave disservice to imply ought else."

Cold fury begins to replace the fear, the confusion, the _pain_ as the memories that he can't have—memories of dying, of watching the others die, of killing over and over to defend the breached barricade—flood his mind. If what he sees, in flashes and fragments of pain behind his eyes, is true, he will not allow the dead to be disgraced in this fashion. "Show yourself, monster. Stop hiding behind shadows and using the tongues of better men. If you've accusations to make to me, make them!"

Laughter rings all around, a cold, low, bitter chuckle that shakes the barricade and throws Enjolras to his knees.

_I've accusations aplenty to make. But why rush things? We've an abundance of time together, you and I. The most time, I daresay, because I want that fiery spirit of yours. I want to watch it burn itself to ashes. And I've all the time in the world to make it do so._

Enjolras is on his knees, the ground stable, and torchlight plays over shadows that seem to writhe with unfettered glee. It takes him a moment to recognize the feel of a pistol against his head.

"Pray or think. You have one minute."

The voice is his own, the words his own, and Enjolras has no doubt that if he looked up at the face of the man holding the gun it would be his own. "Why?"

_You said it yourself, in your speech right after you did this._ Is that a mouth, buried in the shadows? The hints of eyes glinting, red and hungry? _You judged yourself for this, and the judgment you reached was damnation._

"You oversimplify." He keeps his back straight, his expression stern and calm. If this thing wants his panic and his terror, he will not give it the satisfaction. "I was guilty of murder. It was what had to be done. But because of that I was unfit for a place in the new Republic. Dying on the barricade was the sentence I gave to myself."

_To you and to all your friends. And call the feelings what you will, justify your actions as you will, you thought yourself a monster deserving of punishment more than once that night. _Those are definitely teeth, glinting in the darkness, a wolf's hungry smile. _Consider your punishment delivered. Welcome to Hell, Enjolras. I'm going to enjoy having you here._

He doesn't deign to respond to the creature. What point is there in talking to something that only intends to twist all his words, to strive to cause him harm?

The bullet hurts as it passes through his head, and the taste of blood fills his mouth. Only it isn't a single bullet, not the clean death that he gave to the murderer. He's standing against a wall, facing the National Guard, and his chest and abdomen are an ocean of pain that should drown out everything else. _Would_ drown out everything else, if not for the pain in his head, too many memories trying to play at once, or the pain in his heart, recognizing the loss of too many good men to name.

He doesn't scream. He will not give the monster the satisfaction.

Somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind, though, another howls in terror and confusion.

XXX

"Eric!"

It hurts. His gut hurts, his chest hurts, his head hurts, pounds, has been split open, is pouring blood—

"Eric, come on, man, wake up!"

He doesn't understand the words, shouldn't understand the words because they're not in his language, only it's hard to remember what his native tongue is…

"That's it. Come on, E, open your eyes. You're scaring me."

He shouldn't scare anyone. He shouldn't do anything that could potentially dishearten anyone. He has to be the general, the leader, the conduit through which the revolution can speak to the people and the people can find their calling. He—

He…

He's in his dorm room, and that's his roommate standing awkwardly on the ladder to lean over him, and he most definitely has not been shot.

Reaching up to feel tentatively at his chest, at his neck, at the back of his head, Eric lets out a sigh of absolute relief. He isn't dead. He isn't dying.

He's just in the rather awkward position of lying flat on his back while Grant stares down at him with dubious concern. "Good morning, Grant. I'm awake."

"I can see that." Grant straightens slightly, staying stooped so as to not bash his head against the ceiling. "You're all right?"

"I think that might be the worst nightmare I've ever had." He doesn't allow his mind to dwell on it. He doesn't want to remember the horror of dead friends. He wants even less to remember the feel of the gun in his hand, the spray of blood as he shot a man in the head, or the pain of being injured himself. "But yeah, I'm fine."

None of it was real, and he isn't going to torment himself with it. There's more than enough difficulties in the world without his subconscious mind putting him through… whatever that was.

"If you're sure." Grant backs slowly down the ladder, finally disappearing from view when he's a step or two from the ground. One large hand reaches up to pat the edge of the bed. "Sorry if I scared you more waking you up. I'm sure I'm not exactly what most people dream of seeing when they wake up."

"Hmm?" Rolling over to the side of the bed, Eric looks down at his roommate with a puzzled frown. After a few moments of staring at the self-deprecating smile on Grant's face, he realizes the joke his roommate was trying to make. "No, I appreciate it. Believe me, waking up from that was worth anything. Besides, I promise you that most of what I saw in that dream was about a thousand times worse than anyone's face could ever look."

"Must've been a real doozy, then." Grant hits the snooze button on his alarm clock before yawning and crawling back up into his bed. "I turned yours off, 'cause it's seven and you don't know what 'snooze' is for."

"I know what it's for." Scrambling down from his bed, Eric stretches slowly, resisting the urge to feel again at where the bullets struck him. He's not dead. Nobody he knows is dead. The fact that a dream could shake him so much is utterly ridiculous. "I just don't usually feel the need to use it, because I don't usually wake up with a hangover."

"'S very easy to fix anytime you want to." Grant waves one hand in a lazy circle. "I will help. Just give the word."

"The word is I'm getting up and heading to class, you should really try not to sleep through your nine o'clock, and if you're coming to the meeting tonight it starts at 6:30. Otherwise I probably won't see you until fairly late tonight."

"I'll be there." Grant raises his head to give a tired smile. "I'm always there when you're going to talk, E. It's exciting."

"Exciting…" Tilting his head in bemusement as he considers the other man for a moment, Eric turns from his roommate to his closet. "I suppose that's a good thing to be called. Enlightening, educational, even invigorating might be kinder complements, but… exciting will do. See you later, Grant."

A cheerful sound that's not quite a word is the only response he gets.

Shaking his head as he dresses and prepares for the day, Eric manages to shove the last vestiges of the nightmare from his mind. It doesn't matter. It was just a dream, of the non-metaphorical kind, and the faster he can forget it, the better.

He's got much more important things to focus on.


	2. Part Two: Meetings

**Disclaimer:** Victor Hugo owns Les Miserables.

**Author's Note:** Thank you all so much for the kind reviews! Since there's interest, I will continue posting chapters. The pace is a bit slow at the beginning because there are a lot of characters. To try to clear up a few things for those who asked, the boys don't have the same names as they do in the Brick because they're reincarnates; they aren't from the same family, they wouldn't have the same family name. I'm trying to keep them true to themselves, to their core soul, while also allowing for them to have grown up in a different time period with no memories of who they were. They're also going to be interacting with their/each other's past selves, so having two names will be helpful for that. Everyone's name starts with the same letter as their name in the Brick, as a helpful hint. The setting is a not-very-distant US future, AU in that it assumes a rightward-swinging result of the next election and potential international incidents that may or may not actually occur. As to what's going on with the Shadow… well, that's the plot, and will hopefully become more clear as things continue.

_Part Two: Meetings_

He's beautiful.

It's not a new revelation. Enjolras is always beautiful. Why should that change here, in this place, in the face of death? Why should having his blond hair hanging wild around his face, stained with blood and weighted down with sweat, detract from his beauty? Why should the red spots staining his white shirt, thickening, darkening, mixing in a hundred shades of red and black on his hands, mean anything?

They don't. Not next to those blue eyes, blazing in hope and faith and determined spirit even as he stares down the men who will murder him.

Enjolras has always been a warrior angel.

As Grantaire stands and announces himself to the firing squad, he thinks he truly feels, for the first time in a long time, the bright flames of faith in his own heart.

XXX

"Grant!"

Jona's elbow catches him hard in the side, and Grant blinks his eyes open, not sure where he is or what's happening for one long moment.

Jona's voice hisses in his ear. "There's only thirty-odd people in recitation. Sleep-talking is definitely going to get us some unwanted attention. Besides, I'm bored, too. If you're going to talk, at least do it to me."

Right. Class. Organic chemistry, and he owes Jona several months worth of pain for ever convincing him to sign up for it. If the doctor-to-be wants to torture himself with this stuff, he should do it on his own.

"So?" Jona waits until the TA has turned away with a disgruntled, disheartened sigh before whispering the word to Grant.

"So what?" Trying to figure out what problem the TA is possibly illustrating on the board, Grant frowns down at his own notes. Maybe he should have had a little less to drink before attempting his homework. He's fairly certain carbon rings aren't supposed to have tiny dragons looped around each of the six sides.

"So what were you dreaming about? And since when have you been taking French?" Jona smiles brightly at their recitation leader when the long-suffering woman turns to glare at him.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Je suis something something. I couldn't make out the rest of it, but you definitely said something in French." Jona reaches over, poking Grant in the arm with his pen. "You said 'I am… important words Jona failed to translate' in French, to be exact."

"Since when do you speak French?" Correcting where the oxygen owls are pecking at the dragon carbons will take too much effort, so Grant just sketches in the correct answer next to his failed attempt.

"Since I took it for two years in high school. Hence why I recognize a little bit, but only a little bit. Just enough to be dangerous." Another easy grin slides across Jona's face. "Enough to ask for a ménage a trois, not enough to ask if everyone's been tested for STDs."

"Way more than I needed to know, man."

Any further comments from Jona are cut off by his being called to the board to attempt the next problem, and Grant struggles to follow what Jona did and where corrections are needed. He's not going to fail this class. Not after it's already paid for with hard-earned money.

The rest of recitation is a blur of concepts that almost but don't quite make sense. Grant faithfully copies down everything from the board. Well, mostly faithfully. The halogen groups used by the TA don't have demon horns or vicious pointy teeth, but it makes it easier for him to remember what they're supposed to do.

"I wish this wasn't a requirement for me." Jona rises and stretches as soon as recitation's over, shoving his notebooks into his backpack and bending down to do stretch some more. "These chairs have got to be the worst in the entire school, orthopedically speaking. I can feel my spine and neck becoming more misaligned with each passing minute! Plus I really don't see how this is going to help me, since I have no intention of ever going into research. Not that research is necessarily _bad_, per se, but there's enough people in need of basic medical care to keep me occupied for decades already, and knowing how the chloride in the antibiotics that we've been using for decades acts isn't going to have much bearing on what I do."

"Careful with the speech-making. We've still got a few hours to go before that." Struggling not to yawn, Grant carefully closes his notebook. They're just little doodles and sketches, but he likes the creatures he drew on the chemical formulae. Maybe he'll use some of them as references and do larger images later.

"And you're not going to listen to me if I start talking, anyway." Jona tosses Grant a knowing look as they exit the stuffy classroom, emerging into a warm spring day. Hard to imagine that the semester's already close to ending, but the pale green buds on the trees and the riots of flowers attempting to emerge in the flowerbeds show spring has well and truly gripped New England. "You come to listen to one man only, and he most definitely isn't me."

"That's not fair." Grant can feel his face warming despite his protests—maybe because of the protests—and takes a deep breath. "I listen to all of you. I am equal opportunity when it comes to listening and poking holes in your arguments."

"Uh huh." Jona pats his shoulder. "And you just sketch him because he happens to be the only one who stands up when you've thought to bring out your sketchbook. And you just happened to follow him to the meetings in the first place because he's your roommate."

"That one's true." Grant frowns at his friend, adjusting his backpack uncomfortably. "He was my roommate—_is_ my roommate—and it was impossible to miss what he was involved in, so I figured I might as well see for myself."

"And the pictures?"

"I keep telling you not to look at what I'm drawing unless I say you can!" Letting out an exasperated sigh, Grant glares at the other man. "Don't blame me if you don't like what you see."

"Who said I didn't like it?" Jona's smile is gentler, now, less teasing. "You draw a fair likeness of him, and it's obviously sketched with love."

"Now you're flattering me." Giving Jona's shoulder a small shove, Grant studies the ground. "I can't capture what makes him… _him_, try as I might. There's a grace and a belief and a power there that just… slips through my fingers. Any artist who saw him speak would want to draw it."

"So much love, and him so blind to it." Shaking his head, Jona raises his eyes to the grey clouds threatening rain. "May I never be as blind as Eric in matters of the heart."

"Don't… that's not… ah, Jona, don't say things like that about me, or about him, and especially about me and him. I respect him. I _want_ to believe what he says."

"You say when sober, but at other times your words skew decidedly darker."

Ignoring the interruption, and the new heat of shame it brings to his face as he remembers saying things he wishes he hadn't, Grant continues. "I believe in him. I'll help him if I can, because I believe in him. That doesn't mean I love him."

"It does." Jona dances sideways, away from another shove. "It means you love him a great deal, like I said. It doesn't mean you want to _sleep_ with him, true, but if you listen to him when he's preaching then love and sex are two separate things. Hence why I'm quite certain Eric loves the lot of us that he's gathered around him, while I'm also quite certain he wouldn't know a sexual advance from us until we got an airplane to sky-write our intentions for all to see."

"Can we please choose another topic to talk about?" He has not had nearly enough alcohol today to be talking to someone about his relationship with Eric. Or his lack of a relationship, really, because though he follows Eric to most of Eric's meetings, Eric seems more to tolerate than enjoy his presence.

"All right. So when did you learn French?"

"I _don't_ know French." At this rate they're going to have a very long walk back to the dorms. "Whatever you thought you heard me say, you're hallucinating it."

"Maybe. Quite possible, even. Hallucinating is one of the side effects of sleep deprivation, and I'm sure I haven't been getting nearly enough sleep. Certainly not enough good-quality REM sleep." Jona shivers lightly, and Grant's not entirely convinced it's from the light wind that dances around them for a moment. "I'll have to keep myself on alert for any other evidence of hallucinations."

"Jona, you aren't really hallucinating. You're…" Being himself, and Grant finds himself smiling as he considers the other man. "You're a very strange man, you know?"

"Same back at you." Grinning ear to ear, Jona turns so that he's walking backward, facing Grant. "You're coming to the meeting tonight? You don't have to work?"

"I'll be there. I'll be the one hiding in the back corner guarding the drinks, as per usual."

He doesn't mention anything about Eric being the one to talk tonight.

He doesn't need to, and Jona's kind enough to refrain from kicking that dead horse.

XXX

"—the need to ensure all of our brothers and sisters feel safe, confident, comfortable and able to embrace all aspects of themselves. Only when every man is free can any man be truly free, whether the freedom is from the tyranny of government corruption or the tyranny of shackled hearts and minds."

Eric speaks with passion, his blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, his blue eyes sharp and bright as crystals as he paces about the stage. He's dressed simply but elegantly, in black pants and a pale cream-colored short-sleeved shirt. His arms have some muscle to them, the slimmer, lither muscles of a swimmer or an acrobat, and Grant frowns down at the image on the paper. It looks too young, too vulnerable. Eric looks young, yes, but it's a deceptive youth, something that those fierce eyes rip away as soon as they lock on your soul.

"—any other questions, or interested in helping in other ways, come speak with me. There's always work for every willing hand."

Eric doesn't bother walking over to the stairs situated at either end of the stage, instead jumping down from the podium to the floor with ease. For long seconds a circle several feet in diameter surrounds him, people hesitating to approach him; then he's enveloped by a sea of humanity, and Grant sighs, finding it almost impossible to get a good look at Eric amidst the throng.

"Damn, but he could talk a chicken into plucking its own feathers and jumping into the oven." Barry sighs as he throws his large frame into the seat next to Grant. "I always feel like I've just gotten off a roller-coaster when he's done."

"He's very good at getting people interested, at least for a few minutes." Sketching in a few loose strands of hair, Grant frowns down at the image before snapping his sketchbook closed. "I think there's over twice as many people now as he had at the end of first year. Granted, that's half of what he had at the beginning of second year, but he can't expect them to keep coming to ogle him when he doesn't ever throw them a bone. If he just wore a few layers of clothes, and slowly took them off over the course of his speech, I'm sure he could increase attendance —"

"You've been drinking, and the picture didn't turn out the way you wanted, did it?" Barry's face falls in sympathy. "If you'd like, I can take a look at it, try to give you some suggestions."

Grant stares at him for a moment, then reaches up to rub at his eyes. "No. That's all right. I think I humiliated myself enough with that last rant to cover the evening. Showing off failed artwork would just add insult to injury."

"It's not the first time someone's suggested Eric show some skin to get more attention." Barry grins. "But Eric very strongly vetoed that suggestion, saying that if people aren't coming for the cause then they shouldn't be counted anyway. The man's very… come on, artist. Find the word for me. Proud isn't quite right, and neither's determined, though I suppose they both work."

"I draw. I don't write. You're going to need someone else for that." Grant continues to frown down at the closed notebook in his hand. "Though if you want me to just start throwing flattering words at Eric, I can. He might like it more than my last interjections during one of his meetings."

"Yeah, well…" Barry seems to consider before shaking his head. Lifting one hand, he points to a group of three men hanging back from the edges of the crowd around Eric. "See those guys?"

"Yeah." They're all around the same age, though it's hard to really get a good idea of age on campus. Everyone tended to look late teens or early twenties, since most of them were. "What about them?"

"The one with the glasses there is Conlan. He's got a group of his own, Stand Proud. I heard he was interested in talking to Eric about doing some collaborations, but I didn't think I'd actually see him around this quickly." The crowd of people around Eric has thinned somewhat, most of the students leaving with small stacks of pamphlets and fliers courtesy of Eric, Jona or Lyle. "I should get back up there, especially if Eric's going to be accosted by potential business partners. We're going to stick around, have a meeting to determine our course of action what with finals week coming up and the next semester already looming. You planning on staying, or hitting the bars?"

"I've brought enough of my own to hold me here." Fishing under his seat, Grant snags one of his remaining cans of beer. "Maybe I'll even have something useful to contribute to the discussion. Then Eric can be my designated walker to make sure I get home safely."

"Sounds good." Barry claps a hand to Grant's shoulder before bounding back down to where Eric is.

Opening the sketchbook, Grant tries once more to get the image to hold just a tiny bit of the spark that flares from Eric in everything he does.

It doesn't work, like always, but somehow there's release in just the effort.

XXX

"That was quite the impassioned speech you gave."

The man stands tall and straight, looking more formal than he really ought to in black jeans and a dark grey polo shirt. He wears glasses, and Eric finds himself wondering if it's because the man doesn't like contacts or if it's because he likes the looks of the glasses as he reaches out to shake the stranger's hand.

Then he looks past the glasses, into grey eyes that seem far too familiar, and the world stops for a moment.

(_For God's sake, he could be your brother!_)

"Hi." The man's voice is deeper than Eric expected, softer as well, tone hovering around faintly amused though there's a hint of concern around the man's eyes. "You give quite the interesting presentation. Eric, correct?"

"Yeah." Letting go of the man's hand, Eric tries to shake away the strange connection he feels to this man, as well as the even more inexplicable flash of guilt. "And thanks for the compliment. I like to think it's the message that makes it interesting, and that I just act as a hopefully acceptable messenger."

"We certainly liked what we saw. I'm Conlan, Con to my friends, and this is Cori and Finny." Con gestures first to his left, where a grinning man with fluffy light brown hair waves, and then to his right, where a thinner red-haired man in well-worn jeans and a t-shirt stands somewhat awkwardly. "We're three-fifths of the executive board of Stand Proud."

"Ah." Eric frowns in thought, rummaging through his memory to try to place the familiar name.

"You're the main organizers of the Pride parade each year. You do a lot of good work with the LGBT community on campus and in the surrounding area." Barry's deep voice provides the information with grace, enough respect and admiration in his tone to keep it from being obvious that he's filling in for Eric's deficiency.

A deficiency he shouldn't have, and Eric shrugs, trying to brush off the last of the… whatever-it-was that struck him when he looked into Con's eyes. "I've seen some of the hand-outs you've created. It's good work—easy to understand, simple enough for those from a less enlightened background to grasp without sacrificing the overall message."

"Well, when the overall message is that people should be free to love and be who they are so long as they're not hurting anyone… it's not a terribly difficult message to grasp, one would hope." Con raises his right hand, pulling at a lock of dark brown hair for a few seconds and smiling almost sheepishly.

"It isn't, and it won't be. We're winning that war, one step at a time." Eric says it with the same determination he always does, the same certainty, and sees the smile on Con's face shift from sheepish to pleased and… fierce? Perhaps too dramatic and confrontational a word for this man, but it's what springs to Eric's mind. "Did you guys come for pleasure or work?"

"Both, actually. It's always a pleasure to hear someone else speak the words you want spoken, and then we thought we'd talk with you and yours about potentially collaborating on some projects next year."

"Why next year?" Taking a look around, Eric reassures himself that nearly everyone else has left. Those who are still present seem content within their own groups, none of them staring over at him with the hesitancy and uncertainty that those new to the cause have as they debate approaching. "If you want you're welcome to come with us. We were going to have our own executive meeting."

"I was thinking next year because the semester's almost over and getting anyone to do anything other than drink and study at this point is rather difficult…" Con hesitates, shrugging as he looks between his two companions. "But if you have ideas for last-minute events or for projects over the summer, we'd certainly be glad to hear them."

"Ideas are never something he's in short supply of." Lyle grins, gathering up the remaining fliers and filing them away properly. "Or energy. Just be prepared—oh, damn it all."

Eric dives for the box too late, the water bottle that Lyle had tipped over having already poured out half of its contents onto the papers. Wincing, he hastily pulls the few papers that are still dry out of the box. "Lyle, I swear, you must have done something to Lady Luck to make her hate you."

"If I did, it must have been in a past life." Sighing, Lyle uses his sleeve in a vain attempt to mop up some of the water. "Because I've had this luck for as long as I can remember."

"Fortuna may be blind as Justice, but she can smell a good target from a mile away, and you, my friend, are a good target." Grant throws an arm around Lyle, almost sending both of them crashing to the ground.

"Grant, help him clean up." Frowning at his erstwhile roommate, trying to tell how drunk he is from how unsteady his movements are, Eric tries not to let his frustration with the situation show. "Then you can both join us next door. All right?"

"Both of us?" Grant straightens, smiling broadly. "I mean, Lyle, of course, but you really mean to include me—"

"You're always welcome, Grant." Shoving the rescued papers into his bag, Eric slings it onto his shoulder. "You just seem intent on giving me reasons to regret it half the time."

"Sorry." Grant mumbles the word to a point on the ground at his feet, and Eric has the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that he's kicked a helpless animal.

"Don't be sorry." Placing a hand on Grant's shoulder, he waits until his roommate meets his eyes to smile at him. "Do better. You're a smart man, a good man, and you've listened to enough of my talks by now to understand the importance of what we're trying to do. Stand with me. I know you're capable of it."

"Yeah." It's impossible to read the expressions on Grant's face. Joy, in that first brush of his smile, but then doubt, uncertainty, and Eric barely resists the urge to sigh as he turns back to their guests.

"Come with me, then. The room next store has halfway decent chairs, and if we're really going to be comparing notes we may be here for a while."

XXX

"Well, that was interesting. Though if I never have to see the inside of a classroom again, it will be too soon." Cori skitters a few steps ahead of them, his hands above his head as he spins in a circle and looks at the stars. "Meaning tomorrow is really going to be a beast. I didn't believe it was possible to have someone even _more_ knowledgeable and interested in justice and equality than you, Con, but I think we found him."

"He's certainly bright." Con smiles, watching his friend's antics. "A lot of knowledge and a lot of fire, and he's good at getting people to listen."

"That's because he is smoking hot and has a six out of five in his charisma." Cori falls back into step with them, grinning ear to ear.

"That's not what I meant." Giving Cori a long-suffering look, he turns to Finny. "What did you think?"

"I think I like him." Finny speaks slowly, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. "He really listens to you when you correct him. He's got some intersectionality issues—he's rich and white and straight, and I think he'll step on some toes because of that with some of his talk, but… he means well. His heart's in it, fully and totally, and if tonight was any indication he's good at getting people to care. No comment on his looks, I'll leave that to Cori, and also no comment on what I'm assuming was a gaming reference."

"Only assuming? Knowing me all this time, and you still don't speak all my languages. So sad." Cori grins as he speaks, though he places his hand over his heart as though wounded. "Come on, Con, admit he was _hot_. When he was pacing around on that stage, singing the magnum opus of the cultural revolution… yeah, I would have done him in a heartbeat."

"You don't always have to be such a stereotype, you know." Covering his face with his hand, Con tries to ignore his roommate for a moment.

"I thought we were fighting for the rights of everyone to be whatever they'd like to be. If that includes me being a stereotype, well… here I am." Cori's expression changes abruptly from serious back to his usual grin. "It's not like I'm trying to take away your bi card because you're the exact opposite of a stereotype or something."

"I don't like judging people on their looks." Con frowns. "It's degrading and dehumanizing."

"It's totally human. It's placing them into categories and assigning them merit and value based upon their looks and ignoring everything else about them that's dehumanizing." Still grinning ear to ear, Cori throws his arm over Con's shoulders. "And I know it's not your thing, and I know you don't find androgyny as intriguing as I do, which is totally backward since you're bi, but whatever, so we'll just leave it at that. We've had enough serious conversation tonight, and the promise of plenty more to come over the summer and next semester. I think we've just seen the start of a beautiful partnership."

"I'll drink to that." Returning Cori's embrace on one side, Con puts his arm around Finny's shoulders on the other. Finny doesn't react, continuing to stare thoughtfully at the ground as though it has some secret to share with them. It's not like him to be so quiet. "Is something bothering you, Finny?"

"Not really. Not as such. I liked the guy. I think he'd be a hard guy not to like. Just…" Finny shrugs, thin shoulders rippling under his threadbare shirt. "When the two of you met, did you sense anything… odd, Con?"

"Odd…"

(_A blond man cries, a single tear, and it's that tear that breaks his heart as much as the enemy's body hitting the ground. His friend, his brother, beautiful and terrible, and he can't bring himself to apologize for what he said though he knows it hurt. This isn't what they wanted. This isn't—_)

"Con?" Cori's voice, concerned, almost scared, brings him out of his reverie. "Con, you all right? You went kind of… stiff there. And you look like you've seen a ghost."

"I…" It's a dream, a fragment of a dream, and he can't hold on to it. Doesn't want to hold on to it, really, because it hurt too much just brushing against it, and he shrugs free of the others. "I'm fine."

"Really?" Finny stares at him, head tilted slightly to the side. "You look like he did. Paler. Shaken. Uncertain. Afraid."

"He wasn't _afraid_." Con finds his hands clenched into fists as he rounds on the other man, and abruptly takes a step back. Why? What bothers him so much about the idea of saying Eric was afraid? He's known the man for a few hours. "Maybe… disconcerted. Maybe distracted. Maybe uncertain. But not afraid."

"All right." Finny shrugs. "It's not that big a deal, I suppose. I just thought it was interesting. I didn't know if maybe the two of you knew each other from something else, or if he'd seen you before, or… I don't know."

"No. I hadn't met him before today." Though it doesn't feel like that. It feels like he's known Eric forever, like he was just waiting to find the man, like the few hours they spent bouncing ideas back and forth were how things have always been meant to be. Shaking the odd sensation away, falling back into step with the other two, Con shivers. New England springs could get cold at night when they wanted to. "I think I'll enjoy our time spent working together, though."

"Agreed." Cori hooks his elbow through Con's, drawing him forward at a slightly brisker pace. "We'll have two drinks when we get back to the dorm, then. One to old friends, and one to new friends who will become old friends."

"I like it." Con smiles at his roommate. "Though I'm pretty certain you're just looking for an excuse to drink."

Cori's grin widens, something Con isn't sure should be physically possible. "Did I mention that I think I'm also going to enjoy having Grant at these meetings? The man manages to make alcohol appear as though by magic."

"It's quite a useful parlor trick." Finny links his arm with Con's, as well. "One that more student meetings should have on hand."

Sighing, Con tilts his head back to look at the stars. "You guys are awful sometimes. You know that, right?"

"That's right." Cori leans his head against Con's shoulder. "And you love us this way."

There's really nothing to say to that, because it's unabashedly and unashamedly true, so they walk the rest of the way in companionable silence.


	3. Part Three: Plans

**Disclaimer: **Les Miserables belongs to Victor Hugo.

**Author's Note:** Thank you to those who are interested and still reading! Eponine will most certainly be included in the story; she won't have a large role for several more chapters, but she'll definitely be present. **Warning:** This chapter has medical descriptions of a child dying involved in one of the nightmares.

_Part Three: Plans_

He's going to die.

Grantaire knows that they're both going to die as soon as he stands. It's inevitable at this point, whatever slim hope there had been of the city and the nation rallying behind them slipping away like so much smoke in the wind.

He doesn't care.

Enjolras smiles at him, takes his hand in a grip that feels fresh, pure, warm despite the blood that Grantaire can see on the warrior's hands. It is a smile of welcome, a smile of camaraderie, a smile of understanding, and a smile of acceptance.

They are in the same place, for once, on the same plane, and it is not because Fate or Fortune has cast Enjolras down to Grantaire's level.

He sees the shadows shifting as the guns are leveled, the order to aim repeated, the order to fire given.

He doesn't think much of them. There's something far more important in his heart, in his soul, an uncertain fire finally acknowledged and given shape, and Grantaire is smiling as he dies.

It's just a reflection of Enjolras' smile, but it's beautiful all the same.

XXX

He aims carefully at the man. He will make the kill as quick and clean as he can, because he has no desire to make anyone suffer.

Combeferre continues to talk in the background, speaking of their ideals, speaking of what they wish to have grow from the Revolution. He speaks because he has to, because he is Combeferre, doctor and teacher and philosopher and a man of peace, and if his words wound it is because they should.

"You're aiming at him still! For God's sake, Enjolras, he could be your brother!"

"I know." He could be. In another time, in another place, if they were given the chance to talk, he could be.

_Friends, brothers, meaningless words._

"No." He whispers the word, not allowing his aim to falter as the shadows on the barricade begin to roll. Dread spreads through his gut, and his hand wants to shake, but he mustn't allow it.

_No?_ The laughter is mocking, derisive, with an edge of scorn and disbelief to make it cut more deeply. _Did you think you were going to win? Did you think his death would buy you anything more than a few more minutes?_

It should stop hurting one of these days. He should learn to see the signs, to read the difference between memory, reality, and these nightmares. Maybe then it won't make him want to squeeze his eyes shut in agony and denial each time the shadow-demon calls up images of things to come.

Things that have come, things that have been, more sins that it claims to be judging him for, and his breath is ragged to his own ears.

_Even your own people, your closest friend, the man who mirrored you so well, knew that what you did here was wrong. He begged you to stop._

"I did what had to be done." Enjolras' hand tightens on the gun. Focusing on his breathing allows him to control it, and with that controlled the shaking of his hand stills somewhat. "I bought them more time to live. I showed our resolve. I showed our mettle. I gave those who would follow us an example—"

_You killed a man. You killed a man to salve your own pride and your own fear when you knew that you had killed yourself and all your friends for nothing._

It's not true, but there's no sense in arguing with the monster. It won't listen to anything he says.

_And they hated you for it. _He_ hated you for it. Combeferre. He couldn't say it to your face, not on the barricade, not and risk demoralizing the men more than they already had been, but he never forgave you._

He should act as though the monster isn't there. Let his memory play out properly, and perhaps the monster's taunts will be lost in the crush of enemy fire.

_He hated you._

The gun cracks, the noise strangely muted after the roar of cannon, the screams of men during the direct clashes they've had.

The artillery-man spins, once, twice, and Enjolras finds himself pinned in horror by the face of the man.

It isn't possible.

It isn't right.

Combeferre stood beside him on the barricade. Combeferre died on the barricade—the demon's shown him that more times than he'd care to remember.

_He could have been your brother, Enjolras._

It doesn't matter. It's a trick, an illusion, a parody of true events designed to hurt him. It has as much power as he allows it, and he will allow it no power.

_A brother who died hating you, despising you, but still had no choice but to die for you, the useless leader._

He must not—_will not_—dwell on the horror. He will brush aside the guilt and doubt twisting his guts. He will keep his lips tightly closed against the screams of denial and rage that want to escape.

He will ignore the frantic terror of the _other_ drowning in the blackest of his memories and the harshest of his failures, because there is nothing else he can do.

As the scene resets, the artillery-man retaking his position, Combeferre's voice ringing sharply in his ears, Enjolras forcefully pushes the foreign-but-not presence away.

He will weather whatever storms the shadow-man creates for him, at least until he can find a way to injure the monster.

Trying to do more is a greater task than he can even begin to contemplate right now.

XXX

"Eric!"

Hands grip his shoulders, shake fiercely, and he attempts to roll away from them.

"Eric, come on, wake up. Talk to me, E. Look at me."

He can't understand the words. He doesn't know the room, or the clothing, or the images on the wall or the machines scattered about or why someone would possibly want a bed to be a good seven feet off the ground.

"Eric?" The man who speaks is hauntingly, achingly familiar, and he stares into dark brown eyes as he tries to process what's happening.

"Grantaire?" The word—name—slips out without conscious thought, without direction, in an accent that both does-and-doesn't feel right, but there's a peace and sense of security that comes with it.

This man is a friend. This man is someone he can trust. This man…

Is gripping his arms tightly, pinning him in place on the bed, and he frowns down at the hands restraining his body. "Grant, let me up."

"You're with me again?" Grant relaxes his grip slowly, his face pale in the darkness.

Paler than usual, maybe, if the hesitancy in his tone is anything to go by, and Eric forces a smile onto his face. "I'm fine. I'm sorry. I just… nightmares."

"What did you say? Before you said my name, you said…" Grant's words come out hesitantly, in stuttering bursts of sound. "What did you say?"

He said a name. He said a name that meant something in the nightmare, to the man in the nightmare, but it has no bearing on the waking world. He won't allow the dreams to have any bearing on the waking world. "I said your name. Grant. Maybe it came out slurred, I don't know, but that's all it was. Now, what time is it?"

Ducking down a few steps, Grant cranes his head to see the alarm clock. "Five thirty in the morning."

"All right. Good." His last final isn't until nine. Trying to sleep again, though, is distinctly unappealing. "Thanks for waking me. You can go back to sleep; I'll go study somewhere so I won't bother you."

"That's going to give you about five hours of sleep tonight." Grant frowns, considering him still from the too-close vantage point of the ladder. "That's not—"

"I've worked with much less. I'll be fine." Sitting up, stretching, makes the world feel less threatening. This is real. Everything that happened in the dream, in the shadow-world, everything he saw and felt, wasn't. Couldn't be.

"What did you dream about?" Grant lowers his head as he asks the question, as though expecting a reprimand.

"Nothing." Forcing another smile onto his face, he pats the other man's shoulder once. "Nothing important, at least. It's final's week. It's stressful."

"You had a nightmare about finals." The disbelief in Grant's voice is palpable.

"Would that really be so odd?" The words are sharper than he intended, and he clenches his hands into fists for a moment before forcing them to relax. This is Grant. He's been Eric's roommate for two years now, and in that time he's become a friend, though their friendship is sometimes strained by incompatible ideals. Or lack of ideals, but now _really_ isn't the time to be digging into those problems.

Grant doesn't flinch back from the sharp tone, though. "It wouldn't be, if it were anybody else. But it's you, Eric. You're never worried about tests. If you haven't read the book frontward and backward and know it better than your teachers, it's because you don't care about the subject matter, in which case you don't care about the class."

"I… you… that's…" Shoving a hand through his hair, trying to get it back into a semblance of order, Eric frowns at his roommate. "You sound very certain of that."

"Yeah, well, I may not know as much as you, but I know just about everything there is to know about you." Grant hesitates for a moment. "And that came out way creepier than I intended it to, didn't it?"

"Yeah." Eric finds a true smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he studies what he can see of the other man. "Just a little bit."

"Kind of stalker-like." Grant's shoulders hunch as he inches his way back down the ladder.

"A bit stalker-like, yes." Supporting himself on one elbow and leaning over the side of the bed, Eric watches Grant retreat back up to his bed.

"I swear that's not how it was intended. Between the fact that it's five in the morning and I'm not sure if I'm hung-over or drunk still, I plead extenuating circumstances."

"Plea accepted." Swinging down off his bed, Eric turns off his alarm clock. "Go back to sleep, Grant. You'll need it if you're coming out with us tonight."

"You should sleep, too." Grant's voice comes out slightly muffled, and Eric isn't surprised to see the other man has his pillow over his face.

"I've had enough sleep." He speaks the words quietly, to himself, not expecting an answer.

"You've been having nightmares a lot." The words are clear, Grant having pulled the pillow away from his face, though he doesn't sit up again. "For the last three weeks, you've been—"

"Grant." His tone isn't sharp, just determined, authoritative. "Go to sleep."

"Yes, sir." Grant waves his hand in what may be a lazy salute.

Ignoring his roommate, Eric sets about getting ready for the morning. He's able to find clothes well enough by feel and the little bit of light coming in through the window. It's not like he cares how he looks, anyway. As long as he's not going to be arrested for public indecency, or humiliate himself in such a way that the message is somehow tainted by disdain for the messenger, it doesn't really matter.

He thinks Grant's sleeping by the time he slings his backpack over his shoulder and heads for the door. Maybe Grant is sleeping, even, because the words are slurred, accented thickly in a way that Eric's never heard before.

"I'm just worried about you, Enjolras."

The name is a knife in his chest, ice in his lungs, and for a long moment he can't move.

Nothing follows, though. Grant doesn't move. No other words—in any language—are forthcoming.

Heading out, Eric forces the incident out of his thoughts. This morning he has to pass his last final. Tonight they meet with Con and the others.

Dealing with nightmares is very low on his priority list.

XXX

Enjolras cries.

It's not much. A few tears, no sobs, something that wouldn't even show if they didn't clear trails in the dust on his pale cheeks, but it cuts Combeferre to the bone anyway.

_Because it's your fault._

The words are harsh, sharp, and all Combeferre can do is shake his head in mute denial.

_Yes._ The shadows laugh, twisting and turning in sickening, unnatural formations along the barricade. Sliding around Enjolras, wrapping him in a cloak of blackness, caressing his face, and Combeferre finds his voice and his strength in that horror.

"Let him go! Leave him alone!" He reaches for the shadows, to drive them away, to tear them from their target.

He doesn't know how. It's not what he intended. But somehow his hand connects sharply with Enjolras' cheek, the pale flesh suddenly clear and free of darkness. Enjolras' blue eyes flash, anger that fades to disbelief and finally to mute acceptance as the blond bows his head.

"No." Shaking his head, Combeferre backs away. "Enjolras, no. I didn't—this wasn't—the words I spoke, I know you understand them, I know you only did what was necessary, I know—"

_He doesn't hear you._ The shadows are cold where they twine about his feet, and he shivers involuntarily, words trailing off. _He'll never hear you say those words. He died, Combeferre, with your anger still ringing in his ears._

"No." Backing away, he scans the shadows, looking for the creature that is lurking within, taunting him. He doesn't get a good look at it, but he sees… something. A flash of red, hungry eyes; a mouth twisted into a hideous leer; clawed hands sliding along the barricade. It doesn't ever show itself clearly, though.

_They all died, Combeferre. You _watched_ them die._

The world shifts, abruptly, lurchingly, painfully, and he watches as Bahorel dies during the first charge, a bayonet in the large man's chest. It wasn't fair. Bahorel had fought more than the rest of them, had the experience and the passion, but nothing on the barricades was fair.

Death was never fair. It was just inevitable, and sometimes it bought something that was worth the loss.

_Young and younger, champions of ideals and mirrors of dreams, they all died._

The child, the boy, Enjolras' youngest soldier that he tried so hard to protect, dies next. Dies bravely, with as much strength as any of Les Amis, trying to buy them all just a bit more time, but he still dies. Combeferre forces himself to watch, as he did the first time. He owes the boy that much.

He doesn't owe the boy the grief and horror of imagining a child dealing with the nightmare of drowning in his own blood, of trying to determine when the boy lost consciousness and when he died, of how much of the hideous sensation of struggling to breath in clear air he suffered through, but it's where his thoughts go anyway.

Sometimes knowing is a burden he doesn't want, and he finds himself thinking of how awful it must have been for Joly. Or perhaps Joly handled it better, having been trained to ignore suffering, to push aside compassion for the length of time it took to be functional.

_They died for Enjolras._

He didn't see Jehan die. He forces his mind to hold that thought as the scene begins to play, starting with the route of the National Guard at Marius' threat of blowing up the barricade. This time, though, in this awful mirror of reality, he follows them.

It isn't intentional. He doesn't want to follow. He doesn't want to see them drag Jehan with them, cuffing him when he struggles, beating him even when he's quiet. He doesn't want to watch Jehan shake as the officers debate his fate, the effort of questioning him, the demoralization it will be to those on the barricade to watch him die.

He didn't have to see Jehan die the first time, but something in him won't let him avert his gaze as the awful execution is completed this time. Tears fall from his eyes as the body strikes the ground. "He was a poet! For God's sake, he was a poet. He didn't… you didn't have to… We would have traded Javert for him! We would have…"

_Given him a few more hours to live?_ The words are mocking. _None of you survived much longer than him, Combeferre. Not you, not Coufeyrac, not your precious Enjolras. You all died. You all died for nothing._

"We died for something. We died for a cause greater than ourselves. We died—"

_You died._ The words are solemn, final, resounding. _You all died, and France didn't even notice._

It's not true. He's certain it isn't true, just as he's certain that Enjolras knows his heart, just as he's certain that nothing they did was for nought.

It doesn't make it any less painful to watch his friends die, one by one, the damned mocking shadows the only company he's allowed to keep as horror follows horror.

XXX

"Con!"

The voice is frightened, worried, cajoling, and very, very familiar.

"Come on, Con, wake up. Come on, my friend. That's it. Look at me."

The man's smile is tentative, uncertain, his hair a tousled mess, but it doesn't matter. All that matters is that he knows the eyes, that they're familiar, and he finds himself drawing the other man into a tight embrace before he has a chance to think further on it.

"Well, good morning to you too." Cori's voice is light, amused. Cori's arms go around his back, return the embrace comfortably, with just the right amount of strength and pressure. "I'll have to wake you up from nightmares more often if this is the response I get."

"You're… alive." It's hard to choke the words out, somehow, and they sound foreign to his ears. Not quite right, though they are, and Con shakes his head. "You're alive."

"I'm alive, Con." Cori's lips caress his forehead, a gentle, chaste kiss. "We're both alive. Everyone that we know who was alive yesterday is alive right now, at least so far as I know. That must have been one hell of a nightmare."

"It was." The words aren't adequate, can't contain even a fraction of the horror he felt, and he shivers and presses his head down hard on Cori's shoulder. "It was… awful."

"Something you need to talk about?"

"I don't… know." Shaking his head, Con pulls back slightly. "I don't know if I _can_. It was so clear, so vibrant, but it's hard to describe. Hard to remember right, hard to… it's like I was thinking and speaking another language."

"That part sounds pretty cool." Cori's fingers dance along the edge of Con's hairline. "I'd like to have a dream-language."

"I don't… think it was a dream-language. Or, well, I mean, it must have been, but it sounded like one of the Romance languages. Like… French, maybe."

"You had a nightmare about speaking maybe-French." Smiling slightly, Cori squeezes his hand. "I told you taking all those foreign languages would come back and bite you one day. I didn't expect—"

"There was a battle." Another shiver runs through his body. "I was fighting a battle, and my friends… my friends were dying. I was watching them die, and I couldn't do anything to stop it."

"Oh, Con." One of Cori's hands wraps around Con's head, presses him fiercely against Cori's chest while Cori kisses the top of his head. "You're not a warrior, Con. You're not a soldier, and they'd be crazy to reinstate the draft, so you don't have to worry about it."

"They might get desperate enough to reinstate the draft." He doesn't move, allowing Cori to hold him, to comfort him. Some people might find it too physical, might assume it to be sexual because, well, _Cori_. It might be if this were another place, another time. Cori's flirted with him before, and they've both toyed with the idea of a sexual relationship between them, but Con knows that's not what this is. This is quite simply whatever he needs it to be, because Cori's amazing like that, and right now he just needs to feel someone else alive against him. "And I could be a soldier. There are things I would fight to protect—things I would gladly die to protect. If we were somewhere else, somewhere where speaking like we do isn't legal, I'd still do it. I'd fight for the right to do it. I just…"

"It'd just hurt like hell, kill you minute by minute, because you'd see us in every enemy you killed. You'd see us in every ally that fell. You're kind, Con, and you want to save the world." Cori's hand rubs his back, gentle, steady, and Cori kisses the top of his head again. "It's a part of who you are. It's a _good_ part of who you are."

"Thanks, Cori." Straightening, pulling away from Cori, Con offers the man a smile. "And I'm sorry for waking you up at whatever ungodly time this is."

"That would be seven forty-eight, which is only mildly ungodly." Cori releases him slowly, leaning back and posing with all the skill and grace and haughty certainty of a tiger. "Seeing as how neither of us has any finals, I'd suggest we go out and have a drink. Since none of the bars I like open for another three hours, you might have to settle for milk and pancakes until then. Unless you are in dire need of a direct transfusion of alcohol to your overworked imagination, in which case I can certainly come up with something for you."

"I think milk and pancakes will be fine." Running a hand through his hair, Con frowns down at his hands and sweat-drenched shirt. "Though you might want to throw me in the shower before taking me out. How you could manage to hug me when I must smell like the bottom of a gym bag—"

"Maybe I like gym bags. Or maybe you're just so huggable that I couldn't resist wrapping my arms around you while you were defenseless." Cori sticks his tongue out for a moment. "Take your pick. Or take your shower."

"I think I'll go with the shower." Disentangling his legs from his sheets, Con looks between Cori and the ladder. Or rather Cori sprawled in front of the ladder. Raising his eyebrows, he nods at the ladder. "Are you going to let me get down?"

Cori taps his chin thoughtfully. "Depends. Are you going to let me in the shower with you?"

"No." Con says the reply with a smile, letting Cori know that he's all right. "Not right now. I'd like to get my promised breakfast before noon, and letting you into the shower is akin to saying I'd like to be here for another four hours. Maybe some other time."

"A guy has to ask." Cori grins, maneuvering around and using the ladder to jump down. It's almost silly, really. He barely touches the rungs; he might as well jump down from anywhere. "You're going to be all right in the shower? No chance of falling asleep, being assaulted by crazy French soldiers, or otherwise needing a helping hand?"

"I promise I'm going to be all right." Patting Cori on the shoulder once he's on solid ground, Con smiles again. "And thank you."

"Hey." Cori shrugs, grinning ear to ear, somehow managing to look good in his pajamas and with his ruffled hair. The fact that his pajamas are carefully color-coordinated and the shirt form-fitting probably helps, but Con suspects it's more the grin and the good cheer that make him seem so… huggable. "What are friends for?"

Grabbing his shower gear, Con grins wider. "For buying me pancakes."

"Pancakes and hugs. A rare talent set, but very valuable."

"Extremely valuable. Cori, I'm sorry about—"

"Don't be sorry. Don't be grateful—I know you'd do the same for me. Be clean." Shooing him off, Cori throws himself down onto their couch. "I'm hungry. I promise to be dressed by the time you're back, even if you do one of those ridiculous five-minute showers."

Nodding, Con turns and heads for the shower, the memory of the nightmares blunted and brushed away by Cori's good cheer.

If he shivers later, getting a glimpse at Cori out of the corner of his eye, it has nothing to do with nightmares or dead Frenchmen. It's just the chill of early morning finding his sleep-deprived body an easy target.

It wouldn't be sensible for it to be anything more.

XXX

"—so we concentrate on developing support among the locals over the summer, and then when term starts again we can focus on creating a base there for the first month."

Con frowns down at the notepad in front of him, now liberally covered with scribbles and a hand-drawn timeline that's getting more cluttered by the minute. "This is going to require a lot of work—a _lot_ of work, even if we divide it between the si—seven of us. And it's a lot more political than Finny, Cori and I usually skew."

"Not really." Cori takes a drink from his glass, the red liquid staining his lips darkly for a moment before he licks them. Leaning his head against Con's shoulder to study the time-line, he swirls the glass. "Just a lot more _broadly_ political than we're used to working. Or at least you and me; I suspect Finny's had adventures he hasn't told us about yet."

Finny smiles enigmatically, raising his glass in a small salute to Cori. "I've been involved with a few larger projects. This plan's… interesting."

"It's important." Eric frowns, just a slight movement of his mouth, and fixes each of them in turn with a brief look. "With how unstable things have been, this election could change a lot."

"Getting college kids to vote in an election's hard." Grant downs his seventh or eighth glass—maybe fewer, maybe more, Con's not certain. All he knows is that the man talks very clearly for someone with that much alcohol in his system. "Getting them to vote in _any _election's hard. They don't care about the system. They think, and probably rightly so, that the system's broken. They think even if they vote, it doesn't matter, and that there's no-one worth voting for, and I'd probably give them that. Right, left, makes no difference, they'll lie and cheat, because giving a man power's like asking him to reach into the darkest depths of his soul and find whatever unsavory things he always wanted to do but never thought he should and give it free rein. There's a reason the gods saw fit to burn Icarus' wings—to reach for the heavens, to reach for the sun, you're going to end up—"

Barry places a hand over Grant's mouth while Lyle probably attempts to kick him under the table. Given the grimace on Lyle's face and Grant's lack of reaction, Con suspects the kick didn't work so well.

"What Grant is _trying_ to eventually say." Jona speaks with a smile, looking between Eric and Grant. "Is that historically college students don't vote in large numbers, and their highest turn-outs are during presidential election years. The same is roughly true for the economically challenged. You want us to try to mobilize two groups, both largely composed of people from those spheres. It's… daunting."

"Voting is the people's strongest power—their _true_ power." Eric spins his water glass, frowning down into the depths of it. "The system that we have needs improvement, yes. There need to be limits on the amount of money spent on campaigning, there needs to be funds for those who'd like to campaign and don't have the resources, there need to be rules about advertisements, but even given all that the power can still lie in the people's hands. The power to change things, the power to better things, is something that we have. We can make those in power listen to us. We can choose which way our country, our state, our city will go. I don't just want them voting on the Senate and House seats; I want them voting on _everything_. I want them to see that we can make a difference. I want them to break through this conditioning we've had that says to keep our heads down, to give up before we've even started, because there's no point. There _is_ a point. There is power in people standing together."

"There is." Conlan nods, turning the pencil over and over in his hands, considering his words carefully. "It's also a power that can be dangerous. It's a power that can be used by one group to say to another, smaller one that they're worth less. It's a power that can be used by the majority to strip away rights from a minority."

"Not if they're taught. Not if they're educated and made to understand the issues—to see the humanity in every man, to understand that no one's hurt or diminished by the lessening of another man's suffering." Eric's blue eyes blaze, certain, sure. "I don't intend to compromise any of my positions. I don't intend to stop preaching what I have been. But this is important. Something needs to change—to stop the war, to help those who are hungry, to get the homeless back in homes, to see the proper treatment of all people enshrined in law… This November is important."

"There's a referendum for the city." Cori takes another drink, watching Eric closely the whole time. "It's to clarify the anti-discrimination laws to include LGBT individuals."

Eric nods. "There's also talk of a bill being introduced to the state legislature. Whether the marriage equality or the defining marriage as between two opposite-sex partners one is going to get enough signatures first is questionable, but one of them will likely be on the ballot."

"And why shouldn't we focus on that?" Tilting his head, Cori studies Eric closely. "Why go all-out like this when we could focus on one issue?"

"Because it's not just one issue we're facing." Eric spreads his hands out on the table, studying them for a moment before raising his eyes to meet Cori's. "Because we're fighting for our way of life. We're fighting for the rights, the hopes, the dreams of everyone. We're fighting to make our voices heard, so it doesn't come down to bloody revolution. I would fight, if I had to. If they ever make it so my vote _doesn't_ count, so my country is controlled by those who would abuse their power, abuse their people, I would fight. I would make the streets run red with blood before I'd allow something like that to go unchallenged."

Con forces himself to smile, to ignore Cori's sudden stiffness and the hesitancy in Cori's eyes as his gaze flicks from Eric to Con. It's a coincidence, both of them talking of revolution, nothing more. Smiling and setting down the pencil, he forces his eyes to meet Eric's despite the strange thrill of fear running through his veins. "I believe you. I wouldn't say it too loudly, because I'd hate for you to be arrested as a suspected terrorist, but I believe you. I think I'd even fight beside you."

"I think we all would." Cori speaks slowly; his tone is grave, completely serious. "If we needed to, I think every man here would fight for his right and the rights of his neighbors."

"It isn't at that point. Yet." Eric's eyes drop down, to the table, and a shiver runs the length of his body. "There's no need for fighting—not for _that_ kind of revolution. Not here. Not now."

"Eric?" Grant half-stands from his seat, concern etching his features. "Hey, E, it was just talk. It's not—"

"It wasn't just talk." Eric lifts his head again, blond hair falling back, revealing those impossible blue eyes filled with fire. "It's never _just_ talk. I meant what I said, and they meant it too. We'd fight if we had to."

"And I'd fight with you." Grant settles back down slowly. "If you ever decided to fight, I'd be there."

"But it's not at that point. Not yet." Eric lets out a long, slow breath. "And we need to work to keep it from getting to that point. _That's_ why this is important. _That's_ why I want your help, and that's why I'm planning something this... drastic and time-consuming. Any man who doesn't want to help doesn't have to. You all have your own aspirations and plans. I wouldn't force you to—"

"We're helping." Cori lifts his glass. "Or at least, I am."

It doesn't take long for five other glasses to clink against Cori's. After a second's hesitation, Eric raises his water glass to touch theirs. "To better days, then."

It's something everyone's fine with drinking to, and they spend the next two hours planning or getting drunk or, in Cori's case, doing both quite easily.

It's well after midnight when Eric finally calls it a night, taking Grant's arm and patiently leading him home.

Cori throws an arm around Con's shoulder, stares into his face, and giggles.

"You're drunk." Putting his arm around Cori in turn, supporting his friend, Con sighs. "I'm going to have to be the responsible one for the night, aren't I?"

"You're always the responsible one, Conlan." Cori nuzzles against his neck. "It fits you much better. Even fits your name better—Conlan, Cori, which one should be drinking and which one should be wearing the glasses and which one should be finding the amazing people to hook up with?"

"That's three jobs." Nodding a quiet good-night to Finny, who seems content to stay a while longer and is decidedly less drunk than Cori and capable of getting himself home, Con steers his roommate toward the door. "There are only two of us."

"We can share one, if you want." Cori laughs again, a happy, bright sound. "Seriously, Con, these guys are _fantastic_. I feel like I've known them forever. They're bright and funny and clever and amazing and I love them. All of them. And I think we're going to do a lot of good here. I think we're really going to make a difference."

"I think you're right, Cori." Smiling at his friend, he ignores the way his eyes want to jump to the shadows, the phantom smell of blood in his nose. They've met good people. They're planning good things. Shadows and nightmares don't matter. "I really think you're right."


	4. Part Four: Remembrances

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay on this chapter! Real life is not kind to me. Hopefully the length makes up for the lateness. Enjoy!

_Part Four: Remembrances_

It's a dream.

He's certain of that, though he doesn't know why. Maybe he's spent enough of his life dreaming that he recognizes the feel and signs even when they're subtle—the lack of outside noises, the narrowing of his field of vision, the slightly off-kilter feel to time, the immense and almost pleasant sense of déjà vu. The certainty that it's a dream doesn't make anything less clear and sharp as he stands, the familiar proclamation falling from his lips. "Long live the revolution! I am one of them."

Enjolras turns to him, expression shifting from a moment of puzzlement to sorrow to a fond welcome and desperate gratitude that is almost more than Grantaire can bear. He has born it, though. He has watched this scene a dozen times recently, though he isn't sure how.

He says his lines, as he has before, because there is nothing that he would change in these moments. Enjolras' mouth turns up into a smile, fierce, bright, hopeful, welcoming, and Enjolras' hand closes on his in a tight grasp.

_He permits it._ The voice is a sibilant whisper, mocking, awful, and Grantaire stiffens as he hasn't before.

The National Guard holds no fear for him; Enjolras' welcome is more than enough to ease the sting of impending death. But this voice, this monstrous, whispering thing that should not be…

_He permits men to die for nothing. He permits his ideals to bring to ruin—_

"Be silent and be gone." He speaks the words to the shadows, to the darkness where the unseen monster lurks. Enjolras stands frozen, his hand held tightly in Grantaire's, that fierce smile that Grantaire has loved and longed to see directed at him still in place. Waiting for this unscripted interruption to end, for them to die together, Orestes and Pylades, Apollo and his most pathetic priest finally standing as equals, and it is not something that Grantaire will allow to be tainted.

Not in his dreams, not if there is anything in his soul that can stop it.

_Keep this, then._ The shadow says it mockingly, tauntingly. _Keep your useless death. Sacrifice yourself on his altar. It won't make any of you less dead._

Any of them. The words are a near physical blow, and he turns away from the shadow and the terrible images he sees reflected in it.

Bahorel, a bayonet in his chest.

Jehan, blindfolded, screaming his dedication as a dozen bullets find their mark.

Joly with his throat slit, gasping on the barricade.

Combeferre with a half-dozen stab wounds in his chest, struggling still to drag another man to safety, each breath a torrent of blood.

_You slept_.

Marius falls, and blood coats his face, slicks his hair back, makes his expression into a demonic mask.

Laigle doesn't die easily, his cursed luck turning so he survives one shot, two shots, a half-dozen, but eventually he stops trying to get up.

Feuilly stands to the last, tries to raise a pistol with an arm drenched red in his own blood, but there are too many enemies, too little time.

Coufeyrac dies screaming, though Grantaire can't tell if the words are defiant or desperate or an awful combination of the two.

_You slept while they all died for their beliefs._

The scene proceeds, Enjolras holding Grantaire's hand as they both turn to face the firing squad.

_And you think yourself worthy to die with him?_

The deep skepticism in the voice is accompanied by the rustle of guns being aimed and adjusted.

_We'll see how long that new-born faith of yours lasts._

The bullets don't hurt. He remembers that they did, briefly, the first time. There's a new pain this time, though, a new hurt far worse than the old.

He isn't worthy to die with Enjolras. He never has been, and he never shall be, not compared to the rest of their friends.

He hates the shadow for the doubt and despair that taint his moment of victory.

He hates himself more, because his own shortcomings are what made its painful jibes possible.

XXX

Grant wakes with tears in his eyes and a familiar pain in his heart.

He failed.

It's hard for him to hold onto the dream. Partly it's because he never wants to hold onto his nightmares. There's enough failures in his real life to keep him drinking. Borrowing additional pain from his subconscious just feels like cheating.

There's something more to these nightmares, though. There's something… _real_ about them, something that strikes closer to home than most nightmares.

Eric's still sleeping. It's a relief, in some ways. He doesn't want to know how Eric would react to his tears—doesn't want to see pity or disdain or frustration in Eric's eyes any more than he already does. Besides, Eric's been sleeping badly for the last few weeks, since before finals, and Grant doesn't want to add any more stress to his life.

He cries quietly for a few minutes, letting the tears fall, purposefully keeping his mind away from thoughts or nightmares or the past or anything else that might make this awful night any worse.

When his eyes are finally clear he curls up and wills himself to sleep again.

Just as he's drifting off he thinks he hears Eric moving restlessly, mumbling words that aren't quite comprehensible… words that aren't quite English.

XXX

_It's your fault._

Enjolras doesn't say anything. He doesn't care what the voices say. All he has eyes for is the child on the wrong side of the barricade, the child risking his life for ammunition for them. He should have sent the boy away. He should have been more careful who overheard him speak of their needs.

_You should never have done what you did._

Perhaps they can still salvage this. The boy's a small target. He's got the devil's own luck, surviving shot after shot, dancing through the fog like a ghost. A brave, taciturn, taunting ghost, singing his disdain for the sharpshooters trying to take his life, and Enjolras finds himself smiling despite how awful the situation is. Perhaps the boy can do it. He's retrieved enough cartridges. If he'll just see reason, turn back… If he can survive long enough—if one of them can get out there and retrieve him—

_You know how this ends, Enjolras. You know how it always ends._

Gavroche doesn't scream as he dies. He merely stops singing, his mocking song cut off abruptly.

It's not more horrible than Bahorel's death, than Mabeuf's death, than Jehan's death, than the deaths of all the other good men at the barricade. To say it is more horrible would be to cheapen the deaths of the others, and he can't in good conscience do that.

It is differently horrible, a different pain both familiar and entirely new, and it cuts very deeply.

Marius retrieves Gavroche's body. Combeferre brings back the cartridges the boy died to procure. The smoke from the guns still swirls along the street, giving shadows more form than they should have.

_A boy dies for you, and you don't even have the decency to cry for him._

His tears will mean nothing to Gavroche. His tears will mean weakness and fear to those still living, those he still has a chance to save, a chance to lead to a better future.

A slim chance, growing slimmer, but he will ensure that all their deaths have meaning, at least. If he cannot save them, if he cannot give them the revolution, then he will give them the best deaths that he can. They will inspire. They will shine, a beacon in the darkness.

_They will die, and no one will care._

The shadows are thicker than they should be, colder, hungrier, and he turns away as knowledge strikes like a hammer blow. How long will this continue? How long will he be trapped here, reliving tragedy?

_As long as it takes._

"I will not bow to you. I will not give you whatever it is you want."

_You have. You will. You _do_._

"No." Fury rises, and he lashes out with his free hand, swiping at the shadows. All he succeeds in doing is slamming his hand against the barricade, and though he knows it isn't real his body still says that it hurts. "I give you nothing!"

_So angry. Perhaps if you'd been this angry at the barricade, more of your men might have survived._

"God, please." The prayer is ragged but heartfelt. He hasn't prayed before, not in the nightmares, certain that there is some other way, some trick to defeating the monster, that it couldn't really be a demon. Perhaps that was a mistake. Perhaps he is being punished for his hubris—for his belief in his ideals, the Republic, humanity, all far stronger than his faith in any God. If faith or contrition could deliver him from this monster's hands, though… "I did wrong. I shed blood. I will pay my debt for that. But to leave me to _this_ for eternity…"

_You're a monster, Enjolras._

The shadows are the only things that answer, twining about him, cold as ice, hot as fresh-spilled blood.

_You're a heartless, useless, murdering monster._

It isn't true. That much is patently obvious. If he was heartless, truly heartless, it couldn't torture him with the past as it does.

_It's not your heart that's breaking, Enjolras. You killed yours long before the barricade, if ever you had one. It's _his_._

He feels it, again, the strange duality that sometimes dogs him in these dreams, the sense of _another_ in his mind, his heart, his soul.

_Such a pity, being shackled with the soul of a murderous monster for all eternity._

It _hurts_. He doesn't understand what it is at first, too caught up in the confusion of touching thoughts that aren't his own, finding concepts, images, a _language_ not his own somehow buried within his mind. It's not until he tries to find words in the other's language—English, but different, changed from the bits of the language he knows—that he realizes how desperately the other wants nothing to do with him.

It's agony such as he's never felt before, something tearing at the very fabric of his _self_, and he screams without meaning to. The pain lessens at that, as his thoughts separate from the _other_, and he finds himself on his knees, panting in front of the barricade.

_He hates you, Enjolras._

It's not quite true. The _other_ doesn't understand—and for that Enjolras can't blame him, because he doesn't understand, either. To be plunged into this nightmare, to be witness to these acts, these feelings, these losses, without preparation or understanding… it would be awful. Coupled with the shadow's taunts and jabs and relentless, tireless torment, it's no wonder the _other_ wants nothing to do with him.

_He managed to hurt you, didn't he?_ The shadow speaks slowly, its words a combination of amusement and vile glee. _He managed to _hurt_ you!_

Forcing himself to his feet, Enjolras shakes his head. He will not admit to pain or fear, not in front of this creature.

_I'm impressed, Eric._

The word is a knife in his gut, a blow to his knees, and Enjolras finds himself doubled over on the ground, fighting for every breath. Is this the name of the person locked within him, then? Is this the one who's watched silently for weeks that feel like years—the presence that Enjolras has forced away, drowned out, all of his attention focused on surviving whatever attacks the shadow-man creates for him with his sanity still intact? "Eric…"

_Perhaps you could be free of him, then, if you simply fought hard enough…?_

The agony he felt before is nothing compared to that which rips through him now. Something claws at his core, at his soul, strives to separate him from the passion and conviction that have always been his, to draw lines of _you _and _me_ that would strip away the fundamentals of his identity.

Except it is not something, it is some_one_, and he knows the boy's name. Eric, the shadow called him, and he thinks he would have liked this boy at any other time. They are, he can see, fundamentally the same person.

Now, though, the boy's desperate, frantic striving is threatening to tear him apart, to kill him more thoroughly and cleanly than any sword or gun on the barricade ever could. And that is something he cannot allow.

Eric hates him. Eric hates the blood he spilled. Eric hates the execution, is on Combeferre's side about the artillery-man, believes the shadow's words about friends betrayed, lives lost pointlessly. Eric has knowledge of history, of things that occurred after Enjolras' death, and for one frightening moment Enjolras almost loses himself in doubt, seeing some twisted reflection of truth in the shadow's words.

Only for a moment, though. It would be the ultimate betrayal of his friends to allow the shadow that victory. They died for a just cause. They died with purpose. Though he wishes things had gone differently, he does not wish _they_ had done anything differently.

Eric is different than he is. Eric has seen different things, fights different fights, and Eric is not as ready for war as he is. Eric hasn't spent years preparing himself and his closest friends for battle; the revolutionaries he loves best fought with different weapons, and though he has read of soldiers and respected several of them he isn't a soldier himself. He doesn't need to be, not yet, not in the world he lives in.

Enjolras would have smiled at him, were this any other time, and been glad that bloodshed wasn't quite so necessary in the strange new world that Eric bears in his thoughts.

Now, though, Enjolras uses Eric's… _softness_ is a cruel word to name it, when they fought to create a better world, a world where among other things kindness and gentleness would be allowed and expected, but it is what Enjolras' reeling mind gives him. Enjolras uses Eric's softness against him. He attacks with the same viciousness that he used against the National Guard during their final charge of the barricade. There he broke four swords; in this strange mental back-and-forth there are no swords to break. There is simply the claiming of their center, of the fire and surety that is _who they are_, and Enjolras' screams turn to breathless, overjoyed laughter as he feels himself more cleanly, more _wholly_ than he has since this nightmare began.

Rolling to his feet in one swift motion, Enjolras smiles to find a sword in his hand. He is done being the victim. He is done being a puppet, a plaything, for this shadow-creature. Blue flames seem to flicker along the sword, to dance merrily along the blade whenever he isn't quite looking at it. They don't matter, though. What matters is the monster. "Show yourself! Face me, creature. Taunt me now!"

_If you insist._

The words seem to come from behind him, and he spins, attacking as soon as he sees a flicker of those red, hateful eyes.

The man who falls at his feet is blue-eyed, though. Familiar blue eyes, familiar features, ones that Enjolras has seen in the mirror every day he has deigned to look. This man's clothing is strange; his hair is straighter than Enjolras', longer, falling about his head in a wild array. Blood drips from a deep gash across his chest, and his right hand reaches up to staunch the flow of blood while his blue eyes pin Enjolras with a look of terror, despair, horror.

The feeling of fire, of wholeness, of rightness, fades, and Enjolras allows the sword to fall as he reaches down toward the young man lying in the street.

_You died, Enjolras._

The scene shifts between one breath and the next, and Enjolras barely has time to feel Grantaire's hand in his before the firing squad does their duty. The bullets hurt, an agony that continues for far longer than it did the first time, and he stands immobile, trapped in his body as his life-blood patters to the floor and he feels his heart slowly stop.

_You have nothing. You are nothing. Yet you would deign to steal his soul away?_

Eric stands in front of him, a mirror image, an utter impossibility, one hand still pressed to his bloody chest. Hesitation flickers in those blue eyes, and his wide-eyed gaze flicks between Grantaire on the ground and Enjolras pinned to the wall, skipping frantically over the shadows filling the rest of the room.

_Give up, Enjolras. Surrender. Admit your loss. Admit your defeat._

No.

Never.

He would speak the words if he could, calmly declare his defiance to the monster, explain himself to the man standing in front of him and judging him, but he can't seem to move. Is this his newest punishment, then? To be trapped, immobile, inarticulate, in his own corpse?

Eric speaks, the young man's words a string of foreign syllables, and hesitantly reaches toward him with his blood-coated right hand. For the first time there is something besides terror, horror, bitter denial in the man's face, and Enjolras feels hope soar in his heart.

He tries to reach out to the young man.

He tries to speak again, to give voice to his reasons, his needs.

He tries to find the connection that he had before, the sense of Eric as another in his mind, another connected to his soul. If he can find that connection, if he can speak instead of fight, if he can show Eric that their soul is, somehow, one and the same—

Except Eric is gone, the cold of the shadows driving between them, and Enjolras finds himself stumbling forward, reaching out for balance, and a sword is shoved hastily into his hand.

The National Guard has broken through the barricade. Their people are falling, dying, and despite the desperate ferocity with which he fights Enjolras knows there is nothing he can do to change what is happening. There are too many enemies. They come from too many sides, meaning Coufeyrac, Bossuet, Combeferre, Feuilly, some combination of his friends have already fallen.

He cannot change their deaths.

All he can do is make their deaths as meaningful as possible.

XXX

_Who are you? What are you? Why are you..?_

The questions ring in his ears, louder than the sound of guns, louder than the screams of the dying and the injured.

Shaking his head, Eric sits up slowly, pushing through the disorientation of the nightmare. It's better than a lot of mornings, somehow. He doesn't feel the need to examine his hands, to see if they're red with blood. He doesn't have to look over at Grant to assure himself that the man's still alive, still breathing. He doesn't have a desperate desire to call Con and Cori and Barry and Lyle and Finny and just ask them to talk to him, let him hear their voices for a few minutes, to reassure himself that they're all fine.

He needs a shower, like most mornings lately, his body soaked in sweat from a night of fighting monsters. And his chest feels… odd, his right hand going to it continuously, as though looking for a wound. All in all, though, he can live with this. It's preferable to some mornings, when he wakes up uncertain of his own name, uncertain of anything other than anger and fear and revulsion.

He tries to stand and ends up falling back onto the bed, his vision spinning, the world moving in looping, nauseating circles. All right. That's new, and not good.

Sitting up, he gives his head one fierce shake. That doesn't help at all with the vertigo, and he squeezes his eyes shut and rubs at his temples for a moment before gritting his teeth and standing more slowly.

This is ridiculous. A twenty-two-year-old having nightmares this bad is utterly, patently _ridiculous_. It's not like he's been through some trauma recently—not like the men and women coming back from the war. There's been nothing to trigger this. And that means he's not giving his body and subconscious the satisfaction of winning. He has work to do. There are actual important things for him to be worrying about, things for him to plan, things for him to devote his attention to, and he will not allow these insane recurring nightmares to affect him so badly.

Gathering his clothes together, he slips out of the bedroom he shares with Grant and into their summer apartment's small shower. Given how deeply Grant usually sleeps, the water running shouldn't wake him.

He tries not to register the clock in the kitchen later, patiently telling him that it's just before six in the morning, meaning that he's had just over five hours sleep at most.

Compared to some nights over the last month, that's actually pretty good.

XXX

It wrenches him out of a good dream, a dream of drinking and watching Eric, and for that Grantaire hates it.

Which makes no sense, as he knows no one named Eric. Terribly Norse name, really, and he much prefers the tales of the Greeks and their bastard Roman relatives when he's looking for a myth. A bit more literary, true, and thus more likely to be recognized and less likely to earn scorn from the ABC members, but more importantly the Greeks had a bit less certain death. As much fun as the drinking and carousing and shape-changing could be in Norse myth, it was always overlaid with a certainty that everyone, man and god, was going to die, cutting down his own Fates-determined opponent during Ragnarok.

Give him Apollo and the rest any day. At least in the Greek tragedies, the actors sowed the seeds of their own destruction rather than having them predestined. "Then again, Thor would have been a good man to drink with, don't you think? Not necessarily the wisest of drinking companions, but still—"

"No more talking until you've made your play." His opponent glares at him, fingers tapping on the marble tabletop. "I'd like the game to be finished sometime this afternoon."

Gazing at the domino board, Grantaire smiles. "I believe, citizen, that it's rather close to finished already. Now, if you'd like—"

He doesn't know what draws his eyes to the door. He hadn't heard it open, engrossed in the game. Perhaps it's simply that it's _him_. Grantaire would know the weight of that blue stare anywhere.

Especially when it's heavy with disappointment, disapproval, and he suddenly cares nothing for the game in front of him or the curious thoughts of gods that had been preoccupying him before. What is he doing? How has it come to this? Did he really think Enjolras wouldn't notice if he didn't complete his task? Did he really think the great planner wouldn't ask him how the meeting went?

No. He had intended to complete his task. He had intended to talk, borrowing words from Enjolras, borrowing the fire that Enjolras brought to all his tasks. He had even done it, a bit, discussing the current challenges of the times with those who would listen. But then there had been drink, and a challenge to dominoes, and he thought that he could continue to talk through the game, use it to earn their camaraderie and thus a more kindly ear…

"Enjolras." Grantaire reaches for but doesn't touch the other man, his gaze refusing to meet that disdainful blue stare, dropping instead to the floor again and again. "Enjolras, I'm sorry. I meant to… I started to, you see…"

Enjolras brushes past him, and there isn't even fury in his eyes anymore. There is only the cold distance of someone whose expectations of failure and disappointment have been met.

Enjolras speaks to the people in the Barrière du Maine. His words are carefully chosen, simple and elegant; his arguments are solidly and logically made; and he meets the gaze of every man in the room, impressing upon each their potential, their duty.

The eyes of every man but one, but Grantaire still can't bring himself to leave until Enjolras is done. Never mind that Enjolras says nothing to him. Never mind that Enjolras acts as though he isn't there, a punishment of invisibility that cuts more sharply than any furious words ever could.

He isn't worthy of Enjolras' attention.

He pled for a task, a chance, and Enjolras gave him one, despite the doubts that were so clearly, now, based in reality.

He failed in his task.

He deserves any punishment Enjolras deigns to give him.

XXX

Grant doesn't wake crying the second time.

Somehow it's not much of an improvement.

Eric's gone. It's not much surprise, in and of itself. Even though it's eight-thirty in the morning on Saturday, Eric always seems to have something he's working on. If it isn't for his internship it's for his causes—Cori's melt-down when he found out Eric was working what's apparently a difficult and sought-after legal internship (or perhaps it was an externship, Grant has trouble keeping the two straight) as well as doing a significant amount of the work for the rallies had been rather entertaining.

Still, it means Eric isn't here as a distraction, leaving Grant to try to deal with the insecurities the dream dredged up on his own.

He doesn't have work today, and it's too early to go out and get a drink. Calling one of the others this early would be breaking between a half dozen and a dozen college friend rules.

That leaves drinking alone for the next few hours, which is all right with him. Beer, toast, and MST3King the morning news may not be the breakfast of champions, but for him it's a pretty good start to the day.

XXX

They have pizza at the rally.

Grant thinks this was an absolutely fantastic idea, as was Barry's suggestion that he watch the pizza and the drinks. Most of the drinks are non-alcoholic, since Eric prefers them not to sow chaos unintentionally, but Grant knows where the good stuff's stashed.

Granted, it's mostly stashed inside him by this point, but that doesn't matter.

What matters is Eric speaking. Not that Eric's speaking alone. He passes the dialogue to Con and Cori, allowing them to add their own spin and flavor to the message—though Grant supposes that would make it a trialogue, not a dialogue. Con and Eric seem to match each other perfectly, sometimes more completing each other's thought than complementing the thought; Cori adds a note of levity and cheer each time he takes over that the crowd seems to appreciate.

And it is a crowd. A small crowd, maybe seventy-five people or so, and they all seem to hang back from Eric and the others as though unsure what to make of them, but they stay. They listen.

They crowd more around the free food than around the students, but that's all right. Grant's quite confident in his ability to dole out food equitably and charitably, and a firm glare from him's enough to drive off those thinking of snatching more than their fair share. Sometimes having a face even a mother couldn't love has its uses.

"—tell you that you're powerless. That it doesn't matter, that voting is a waste of time, that becoming educated about the issues and the politicians is a wasted effort, but it's not. They tell you that because they're frightened—because they know that _we_ have the power!"

"The power of Greyskull!" Grant lifts his bottle in toast to the handful of people who turn to him and smile. They're mostly his age to a few years older than him, the generation of obsessive nostalgia, and they don't seem to mind that it was a fairly bad joke. They actually seem relieved to have someone else injecting a bit of good humor into the proceedings.

Eric doesn't seem to notice, continuing his speech as though nothing had happened. He doesn't change his demeanor or his words when speaking at these rallies, treating those who stop as though they were the students who attend his campus meetings. It's good, in some respects, because it means he isn't talking down to them. It's also very Eric. Grant's not sure it's entirely fair, though. Some of the people in the crowd probably haven't seen the inside of a classroom in years; others probably don't speak English as their first language; one or two look rough enough around the edges that Grant isn't sure they understand _any_ language and aren't just here due to the inherent attraction of crowds for most people and the possibility of free food.

"—nothing to lose and everything to gain. If we are silent, if we acquiesce, they will continue to do what they have done. Take our freedoms bit by bit in the name of our security; take our homes; take our children for wars that we don't believe in, wars based on lies and continued despite our protests—"

Grant can't help the snort that escapes, sending alcohol burning through his nose. "Right, Eric. Because you look old enough to have any kids. Change the wording or give that rhetoric to Cori."

A round of snickers runs through the crowd around him, and Grant realizes that he must have spoken louder than he intended to.

Cori takes over for a few minutes, and Grant finds himself distracted by a few late-comers sidling up looking for any remaining pizza. He notices when Eric starts speaking again, though, his ears somehow tuned to the unique pitch and timbre of Eric's voice. Deeper than it seems like it should be from looking at his slender body, his youthful face, and Grant finds himself sorry for once that there's no clean way to incorporate audio into painting or sketching. There's just no good medium in which to capture all the contrasts and contradictions that make up Eric.

"—ask is that you stand with us. Use the strength that you have. Governments should fear their people; people should not fear their governments. They think we've forgotten this, but we haven't. We never will."

"You'll never let us." Grant says the words with fondness, but another spate of nervous laughter erupts from those around him.

Eric turns to look at him, blue eyes hard and cold, and for a long moment Grant forgets how to breathe.

He failed. He failed. He failed so many times, playing dominoes while they worked, letting his belief slide away like water through his fingers, sleeping through the revolution, earning his parent's undying hatred, and—

"Grant." Jona sets a hand on one shoulder, leaning in to talk into his ear. "Maybe you've had enough to drink."

"No such thing." He mumbles the words to his beer, clutching it more tightly to his chest. Eric has begun speaking again, though Con soon takes over. Cori will be giving closing remarks soon, and then they'll field questions. If it's anything like the last rallies, there will be a lot of questions, some accusatory, some angry, some nonsensical, and a few actually legitimately interested.

"No more comments from the peanut gallery, all right?" Lyle speaks gently, smiling to anyone trying to come closer to them, directing their attention back towards Eric and the others. "It's one thing to poke holes in our theories at our meetings; it's quite another to have one of us undermining our message to the crowd."

"'S all right. I don't look like one of you." It's true. Eric's gorgeous, and even though he dresses simply he dresses well, in clothes that always match. The others are more human in their beauty, but even Lyle with his receding hair-line looks about a hundred times better than Grant. And they all dress more neatly than him, in clothes more expensive than he could ever afford even with his two jobs, with the exception of Finny. He should really try to get to know Finny better.

"You _are_ one of us." Barry hisses the words into his ear, and Grant considers him for a long moment. Maybe Barry doesn't dress all that much better than him, either. Or at least he looks out of place and uncomfortable when he's dressed overly nicely. "And that's going to be fairly obvious when Eric walks your drunk ass home, so just try to behave until the end of the meeting."

"Eric's not going to want anything to do with me." Grant steals a glance at Eric, standing with Cori and Con, allowing them to field the first questions, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Eric's—"

"Whether he does or one of us does isn't the point, Grant. You're pretty obviously one of us, since you've been the angel of sustenance for everyone here tonight." Lyle squeezes his shoulder gently. "And I've never known Eric to leave you anywhere when you're drunk, so don't look so stricken. He probably didn't even hear what you said."

Grant just shrugs, taking a drink and continuing to watch Eric.

It doesn't matter if Eric heard exactly what he said or not. In all honesty Grant doesn't remember exactly what he said. They'll both know what the gist of it was, though.

That's more than enough, really, for Eric to be disappointed in him.

XXX

"They're crazy."

Erin makes the statement around a mouthful of pizza, drawing Mark's attention back to her. "What was that?"

Swallowing the bite, Erin grins up at him. "I said they're crazy."

"They're college students." Frowning, Mark looks back to where the small group of students is handing out fliers to anyone they can convince to take one.

"Right. Crazy."

"I _know_ some of them." Sighing in exasperation, Mark turns from the rally toward the student ghetto and the apartment complex where both he and Erin live.

"Doesn't mean they're not crazy." Erin skips along at his side, still with a slight grin on her face. "I mean, what do they think they're trying to do? Even if they manage to get my people to vote, they're not going to vote the way 'at—I mean, _that_ kind of people would want them to."

"I don't think that's necessarily true." Shoving his hands in his pockets, Mark tries not to show how decidedly out of his depth he is with this conversation. "I've met plenty of nice people here. I met you, didn't I?"

"Yeah." Erin's grin widens, and she bites at her lip for a moment. "You did meet me. I might be the exception that proves the rule, though. Give most o' these people an inch and they'll take a mile; show your sleeping throat and they'll cut it for fun and then eventually remember to rifle your pockets. They wouldn't know the first thing about that whatever-'e-said… social contract? Social justice? If a neighbor can't help himself, he don't deserve no help."

"That's a very dark and depressing way to look at the world." Mark stares at his companion, at the happy expression on her face that doesn't match the dark words coming from her mouth.

"You've met my parents. You've seen the things that crawl out into the street at night 'round here. If it's depressing to say the truth, it ain't my fault." Erin skips forward a few steps, turning and walking backward so she can watch him. "You said you know them?"

"I know two of them, at least. Or I've seen them. The blond one who did a lot of the talking, his name's Eric, he's been in some of my legal classes. The one with the medium colored hair, the not-quite-blond, his name's Cori and he's also in some of my legal classes."

"Oh." Turning and falling back into step with him, Erin frowns in thought. "Lawyers. So maybe they're tryin' to trick us, then. Maybe they want something else from us."

"I'm… fairly certain not." Hiding a grin with a slight cough, Mark smiles down gently at the young woman. "They're authentic, at least as far as I can tell. A bit liberal—all right, maybe a _lot_ liberal, and very… enthusiastic, but I'm fairly certain they mean well."

"Do you agree with them?" Erin looks up at him, brown eyes wide and curious. "The things they were sayin', about us having power, about us needin' to use that power to work on changin' and improvin' things, you believe that?"

Mark shrugs, trying to sort out what few political ideologies he has into a coherent train of thought. They're largely untested theories, borrowed from his parents and from friends over a few drinks, but they've never done him wrong so far. "I guess so. I mean, some of it. Supposedly we have power over who we elect, and over the kinds of policies they support. I'm not sure it's as important or as powerful as they're making it out to be, though. Then again, I don't think the world's as bad off as a lot of the left-leaning guys do. Sure, the economy's been kind of terrible, but that happens for all sorts of reasons. I don't see a lot of what's happened as that big of a deal. Certainly nothing to get as worked up about as they are."

"Think they'll be comin' 'round again?" Erin licks at her fingers, getting every last speck of sauce and pepperoni off.

"I can always ask them."

"I think you should. We could go see them again, see if they're always sayin' the same thing or if they change their story." Erin smiles at him again, a shy, pleased expression. "Who knows? Maybe they'll decide to have free food all the time."

Mark isn't sure how polite it would be to show up to meetings just to steal food, but he supposes there's no harm in asking how often they'll be having them or where they'll be. After all, the likelihood of him getting dragged into their rallies and social rebellions is pretty small.

XXX

Eric's quiet on the drive home.

Eric's quiet on the walk up to their apartment, keeping one hand firmly on Grant's elbow at all times, leading him with a quiet dignity that makes Grant wish his balance weren't quite so rebellious at the moment.

Eric's quiet as he maneuvers Grant onto Grant's bed, bending down after a moment's pause to help Grant with his shoelaces when the damned loopy ouroboroi don't want to stop eating themselves. He disappears for a few minutes after that, and Grant has a fleeting hope that maybe Eric's going to leave him alone and let him die of embarrassment in peace.

Then Eric reappears with a glass of water and a handful of Ibuprofen, which he patiently sets on the bedside table where Grant will be able to grab them in the morning, and Grant finds his gaze fixing itself to the floor.

How can he meet Eric's eyes? What's he supposed to say? Thank you? I'm sorry? Nothing's going to be adequate, and he can't take the thought of the disappointment that's certain to be there or the pity that's apparently overlaying it, given Eric's gesture of kindness.

"Why?"

The word's spoken quietly, but it still seems to echo in Grant's head, in the corners of the room, a question that's not really a question but rather an accusation.

"Why, Grant?"

How is he supposed to answer that? How is he supposed to summarize his life, his feelings, his beliefs into a few short sentences, especially when he's still too drunk to untie his own shoelaces?

The silence continues to stretch, Eric standing in front of him, and eventually Grant forces his eyes up from the floor. Up Eric's long, black-clad legs; up his torso, past the lithe arms crossed over the slim chest; up to his chin, a beautiful work of art, somehow delicate but still masculine; and then in one final jump to his eyes.

His expression isn't what Grant expected. There isn't pity in his eyes. There's anger, still, just a small amount, a fire burning in the slight downturn of his lips, the crinkle at the outer edge of his eyes. More than that, though, there's open, frank curiosity.

Eric actually wants to know about him.

"Why what?" It's a stupid question, coming out thick and wrong, but it buys him more time to try to process that look. Eric's focused on him, fixated on him for at least these few seconds, and even if it's the look he usually turns on a seemingly intractable problem, it's still a _look_. It's still an acknowledgement.

"Why did you do what you did today? Why did you mock us in front of the crowd?" The anger brightens, hardens, and Grant lets his eyes drop away from Eric's face again.

He doesn't need Eric's anger to know he failed. "I'm sorry. I didn't think…"

"Why do you follow me everywhere, why do you insist on being involved with us, when you obviously don't believe what we believe?" Eric's arms loosen, fall to his side, though his fingers twitch as though they long to ball into fists.

"I want to help." It sounds pitiful, childish, and Grant takes a long, gasping breath, trying to find better words. "I've been helpful, just a little bit, right? I want… I just like hearing…"

"If you're just going to undermine us, then I'm going to have to ask you not to come." Eric says the words calmly, the tension draining from his arms, from his hands.

Grant's eyes dart back to Eric's face, take in the cool acceptance in his expression, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe. Eric's going to shut him out. Eric's going to send him away, keep him at a distance, away from Eric and away from the friendships that he's made among Eric's motley collection of discontents. Sent away, shut out, turned aside, because he can't believe, and he gasps in one shuddering breath, two, trying to find the words he needs.

Once they come, it's a floodgate opening. "No. Eric, please. Don't send me away. I'm sorry. I'll try. I'll try again to believe, I'll try, but it doesn't work, it's something defective in me, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm _trying_, so please don't don't don't—"

He's ranting, rambling, panting, has fallen off the bed trying to stand and reach Eric, and he needs to not be drunk. He needs to be sober. He needs to be useful. He needs to be someone who can do the tasks he takes on, someone who doesn't undermine children's faith, someone who doesn't play dominoes instead of talking revolution, someone that Eric will keep, someone Enjolras won't despise—

"Grant!"

Eric is kneeling in front of him. Iron bands have a hold of Grant's head, anchor it in place, and Grant realizes after a moment that Eric's holding his head between his hands. It doesn't quite stop the world from spinning, but it helps him find his center of balance again.

"That's it, Grant. Breathe." Eric frowns, concern and confusion etched across his pale features. His hair has slipped from its usual tight ponytail, several strands hanging free on the right side of his face.

For a long moment Grant just watches the strands of pale blond hair move with Eric's body, swaying to the other man's breathing, finding time with his body. Grant's breathing slows, steadies, begins to match Eric's, and the world doesn't seem like quite such a threatening place. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't usually be like this. I'm really quite drunk, you know."

"I know." The ghost of a smile slides across Eric's face. "Believe me, I noticed. So perhaps it was unfair of me to ask you now. I just wanted to… I need to _understand_."

"You understand everything." The words come out with the utmost conviction, a conviction like he hasn't had in years, and Grant finds himself listening in fascinated awe for an echo of the statement. When nothing comes, he meets Eric's eyes and continues on. "You always understand everything."

"I can't understand what I'm not told. I can't understand behavior that seems…" Eric hesitates, eyes sinking down and his body stilling as he searches for a word. "Eccentric."

"Eccentric?" Grant can't help a snort of laughter, which he tries and fails to turn into a cough. "You think I'm eccentric? That's the best you can do? Erratic. Unreliable. Unpredictable. Inconsistent. There are so many other words you could choose from besides—"

"Do you ever think before you speak?" Eric asks the question softly.

It still causes Grant to clamp his mouth shut, turning the tide of words before they can escape. When he's sure it's safe, he offers Eric a small shrug and an answer. "Sometimes thought interferes with my elocution, but not frequently, I fear."

"You're a very verbose drunk, and I swear over the last month it seems your vocabulary gets better when you're drunk." Eric stands, moving his hands to under Grant's elbows to help him to his feet. "Come on, back onto the bed."

It's simpler the second time around, and Grant allows himself to sprawl across the top sheets, his arms clamping around his pillow and hugging it tight to his chest. He turns to face the wall, burying his head in the pillow as best he can. Maybe he won't remember this in the morning. Maybe Eric will be kind enough not to mention anything about it, and they can all continue on as though nothing happened.

"I do want to understand, Grant." Eric's words are still soft and quiet, contemplative, and Grant feels the bed sag as Eric sits down next to him. "You're bright. You _can_ work hard—you keep yourself fed, you pay for your tuition. So why…"

"I'm defective." The words are slurred, barely comprehensible to him, but he doesn't want to lift his head. "I don't believe in anything."

"You're going to have to be clearer." There's a note of exasperation in Eric's voice now, and he leans over to tug the pillow away from Grant's head.

"I don't believe." Blinking blurrily at the blond angel bending over him, Grant allows a smile to slip across his face. If it's more bitter than his usual smile, well, what does Eric expect? "It's why my parents don't talk to me. It's why I'm on my own here. I don't believe in God. I don't believe in _anything_."

"Ah, Grant…" There is pity in Eric's eyes now, a comprehension that hadn't been there before.

Grant turns away from it. He doesn't want Eric's pity. He wants the man's respect, but that's going to be a long time in coming when he can't even manage to just sit quietly and not screw everything up. Especially since he can feel tears pricking at the corners of his eyes again, silly things, like crying's ever helped any of his problems. Being a happy drunk is usually a much better route to take.

"It's fine not to believe in supernatural entities." Eric speaks slowly, after a long pause, having settled back onto the edge of the bed. "Having faith in God or gods is an individual choice. It doesn't even necessarily reflect on one's spirituality—there are some amazingly spiritual people out there who don't believe there's a sentient God. For your family to shun you because you have different religious views is wrong."

Curling tighter around the pillow, Grant tries hard to keep the tears behind his eyelids. He succeeds… mostly. The few that escape won't necessarily be recognized. "'S not just that."

"What?" Eric lays a hand on his shoulder, a gentle, comforting touch such as he might give to Con or Cori or Barry or Jona or any of the others.

"It's not just that." Sitting up straighter, scrubbing at his face to hide any lingering evidence, he turns to look at Eric. "It's not just God. It's… everything. Once I started questioning one thing, I just… couldn't stop. I questioned everything. I still do. I don't _believe_ in anything, Eric. I can't. It's something that's broken in my head."

"If that's the way you feel…" Eric pauses, studying his hands. When he lifts his head again his face is impassive, the pity gone. "I can't give you faith. I can't make you believe in our ideals. I can't force you to understand what we're doing, or to take part in it. I wouldn't want to do that, anyway."

"No." Grant smiles, a more genuine smile. "You want converts, not convicts. You want people to hear you and have it echo in their hearts and grow in their minds and take on a life of its own. And I can almost see it, when you're talking, when I'm really paying attention. I… like it. I wish I could have it. But I can't. It doesn't _stick_."

"Maybe if you spent less time drinking and more time sorting your thoughts it would work better. You've a sharp talent for finding flaws in things, but you flit from point to point like a caffeinated hummingbird, never giving any one aspect enough of a chance." A slight upturn of Eric's mouth takes any sting there might have been from the words. "Start making coherent arguments with yourself, and maybe you'll find something to believe in again."

"I did." Grant studies his hands, large, calloused, even at their most pale several shades darker than Eric's. "The best I can do, anyway. I found you."

"I'm not an idol, to be worshipped and placed on a pedestal." There's an anger that hadn't been present before in Eric's words, a fierce, burning fire in his eyes. "I'm not something to believe in, Grant. I'm a person. Believe in my ideas and ideals or don't, but don't… don't…"

Eric pales, leaning forward and placing both palms flat on the bed. His head falls forward, his ponytail sliding over his right shoulder.

"Eric?" Grant hesitates, hands to either side of Eric's body, ready to catch him if he collapses entirely, at a loss for what else to do. "Eric, what's wrong?"

"I'm sorry." Eric's voice is thin, weak, and he shakes his head once before slowly sitting up. "I'm fine. I'm just… tired. I haven't been sleeping well."

It's obvious as soon as he says it, and Grant can't forgive himself for missing the signs. The dark circles under his eyes, the moments of distraction he's had, the slight tremble to his hand on occasion… "What can I do?"

"Don't mock us in front of others again." Eric sits up all the way, reaching up to release his hair from its elastic holder. "If you really want to continue to meet with us, fine. You're entertaining, the others seem to like you, and you do sometimes have good points to make."

"I do? I mean, I will." Reaching out slowly, hesitantly, he allows his fingers to glance across Eric's knee. "I'll try. I'll be useful, I swear."

"Be yourself, Grant. Be the man that I know you can be—smart, strong, kind, compassionate. Don't destroy yourself with drink and doubt and hesitancy." Eric stands, setting his hair-tie on the table next to the glass of water and the Ibuprofen. The expression on his face is unreadable, even to Grant. Or maybe unstable would be a better word, oscillating between a fiery certainty and a hesitation that Grant hasn't really seen before. "And I'll help you."

"I…" Grant blinks up at Eric. "What?"

"If you want, I can try to help you." Eric turns to face him, crossing his arms in front of his chest again, though it looks more like a gesture against cold now than the gesture of a disapproving judge. "You're an adult, so I can't force you not to drink, but I can… try to help you limit it. I can find you people to talk to, if you need; I can find you alternatives."

"That's…" Grant swallows the lump in his throat, trying to find what to say. Trying to find what he _wants_ to say, to sort the insane gratitude from the annoyance from the certainty that it wouldn't work. "That's nice of you, but I was kind of a mess even before I started drinking. It's not the drink that makes me doubt; it's not always the doubt that makes me drink, either, but…"

"I might be able to help with that, too. I can talk with you—I can argue with you, point and counterpoint your arguments, help you find what it is that _you_ believe. I don't mind a good debate. They're quite worthwhile." Eric tilts his head slightly, and Grant's reminded of a cat. A puzzled, uncertain cat, looking at something that could be prey or could be dangerous, but after a second's hesitation the predatory look changes to an open smile. "I can be your friend, Grant, because I can't be your idol. I _shouldn't_ be your idol. I'm human, just like you."

"Not just like me." Shaking his head's a bad idea, and Grant waits for the world to stop spinning quite so much before continuing. "You're… you're fire, Eric. You're bright and strong and fierce and you illuminate everything and you're capable of warming or burning as you see fit, but me… if I'm anything, if I have any moments of brilliance, it's like lightning, there and then gone."

"Except the whole world runs on electricity, Grant, whereas we have firefighters to put out blazes." Eric's smiling, though, seemingly genuinely amused.

"Then that's a bad simile, but like I said I'm really drunk. Which is why by simile I meant metaphor, but it's close enough. Nobody really knows the difference between the two, anyway." Grant stops to breathe and loses his train of thought. What was it Eric had said last? Eric. Grant. The idea of them as equals, and he shakes his head emphatically. "You're a different species than me, man. You're on a different plane entirely, and I'm all right with that, as long as you let me keep peeking up there to see you."

"I'm not better than you. I'm just… Ah, I don't want to talk about this right now. Go to sleep, Grant." Eric says the words gently, reaching over to press on Grant's shoulder until he's lying down. "We can discuss the offer in the morning, if you remember any of this."

"I'll remember." Grant lies down obediently, watching Eric as Eric stalks gracefully across the room and turns off the overhead light. The room doesn't become entirely dark, the lights from the parking lot bleeding in through the window blinds, so he can still see Eric. "But I already have my answer. Yes."

"Yes what?" Eric's back is to him, the other man stripping out of his shirt before bending down to deal with his shoes.

"Yes, I want you to help me. If you want to, if you have the time, if you _can_, because I've had several people say that I'm a lost cause." Grant trails off, still watching his friend and roommate. "I'll try, Eric. For you… I'll try anything."

"I'll do what I can, Grant." Eric strips out of his pants and climbs into bed. "I can't save you from yourself. No man can do that. But I'll do what I can to help. It's what's every man owes to his friends. Now, go to sleep. And have pleasant dreams."

Grant nods.

With Eric's offer bright in his mind, he's certain there's no other kind of dream he could have.


	5. Part Five: Rumblings

__**Author's Note: **This chapter briefly touches on alternate sexualities that will be dealt with more in later chapters.**  
**

_Part Five: Rumblings_

He's one of the first to die.

_Terribly unfair, isn't it?_

Of course it's unfair. Who ever thought the damn revolution would be fair? Bahorel tries to turn his head to the side, to see whoever made the inane comment, but apparently being dead makes it difficult to move.

Any time those white clouds and chorus of angels and shining gates could appear. Any time, because the hazy smoke of battle and the occasional thrashing limb and the one spurt of arterial spray that he gets to see isn't terribly exciting. He just hopes it's the blood of a Guardsman, because he's already shed enough revolutionary blood in this particular spot.

At least he fell facing upward. Facing down at the barricade or the street, just hearing what's happening while seeing nothing, that would be even worse than this. Thank heaven for small blessings.

_Ah, you're so delightfully entertaining._ The voice purrs in his ear, light, happy, but with an underlying malice to the tone that he doesn't like. This is the type of person who would offer to buy you a drink and then throw it in your face, or pay for a bottle of wine in order to break it over your head. _It's a pity that you got involved with this group, you know._

He wants to snort in amusement and denial. He got involved with Enjolras and his group because he thought Enjolras would get things done, and that's been proven very right. The fact that Bahorel himself was too slow the one time it really mattered, dodged right when he should have feinted left, doesn't change the fact that the Revolution is occurring. If he's going to leave his blood anywhere, let it be here.

_We'll see how long you keep to that._ The malice is less cloaked in the voice of the person talking to him now. _Come. Let us see how this revolution of theirs goes. Who shall we follow first? Ah, yes. Did you call him Jehan, Bahorel? Did you join in the use of pet names for your friends?_

Bahorel doesn't know what changes. All he knows is that he can move again, springing to his feet with all the strength and determined ferocity he's always had. He spins, looking for the man who taunted him, but there are too many people, too many shadows. Too many bodies, the first wave of the dead and wounded lying on the barricade, in the street, and he doesn't intend for his eyes to focus on any one of them.

It's hard not to stare down at his own form, though. His chest is a dark mass of black and red clots, brighter red blood staining his face around the mouth and nose. Dust has already started to collect in the blood, giving it a grainy, unhealthy appearance.

Which it should have, really. There isn't anything much more unhealthy than death, and he crosses himself once before averting his eyes from the corpse. Hopefully Joly won't take it too hard. Maybe Joly won't even notice, the doctor so wrapped up in the wounded that they won't bother showing him the clearly dead.

_You're missing the point, my friend._ The creature has a form now, a form which Bahorel backs away from, adopting a defensive stance. It is vaguely human, though made all of shadow, and baleful red eyes stare out at Bahorel in a pantomime of innocence as it stalks around him. _You're focused so much on that useless bag of bones at your feet that you aren't even watching what's happening around you._

The shadow-creature moves, and Bahorel finds his attention arrested by the sight of Jehan, dragged roughly behind a retreating line of guardsmen. The poet looks dazed, confused, blood sliding down his face from a scalp wound somewhere in the mass of curls on the right side of his head.

Bahorel doesn't think before charging at the soldiers. He thinks as he's doing it, calculating how they'll likely react, which ones look most aware and alert, which ones look the strongest, who's the closest to Jean Prouvaire and thus the most able to hurt him. He's already fought half the fight in his mind as his fist goes crashing toward the nose of the man prodding Jehan in the side with his bayonet.

_But you're dead, Bahorel_.

It's too late to try to stop the punch. The unexpected interjection just throws off his balance, reducing the force behind the blow. It doesn't matter in the end, though. Strong punch or weak, it makes no difference, passing through the head of his target.

The dead can't punch the living.

The dead can't save the living.

All they can do is watch, in impotent frustration and despair, as a mockery of a trial is given, a combat jury of the enemy reaching a unanimous decision in favor of execution. Jehan doesn't protest his fate, though there's fear in his eyes as they blindfold him. Instead he stands tall, eyes turned to the heavens he won't see again, and proudly declares his allegiance to the revolution.

Bahorel doesn't watch him die. He watches the men who kill him, his teeth bared in rage, arms trembling with the desire to interfere, to intercede, a desire that he knows the dead won't be granted.

Plural dead, and he turns back to Jehan once the deed is done, trying to ignore the amount of blood pooling around his friend's body, the twitching of his limbs as life fades entirely. He can at least offer Jehan some comfort here, at the final crossroads.

Kneeling down by his friend's body, he reaches for the blindfold.

_Dead, remember?_ The shadow whispers the word in his ear, giggling almost maniacally when he turns to glare at it. _You can't do anything to help him, Bahorel. You couldn't help any of them, because you died, one more corpse for a lost cause and an incompetent leader._

"My death was the fault of myself and my enemy. Enjolras could do no more than arm us and prepare us for the attack, which he did as best he could." Bahorel finds his teeth gritted together, his hands clenching into fists. It shouldn't bother him so much. Well, perhaps it should; if your death couldn't get you worked up, what could? They always knew men would die on the barricade. It's just… _wrong_, somehow, that he, the master of brawling, should fall so quickly. So uselessly, before the revolution's even properly started, but such regrets couldn't change reality. "Come, Jehan. Find your feet and your voice and let us sing this creature a song of the new world."

They sit in silence for long seconds, and Bahorel reaches out to touch Jehan's hand gently. The skin is warm still, but there's a chill beneath the warmth, an absence of something vital.

_He won't be joining you here, Bahorel._ The malevolence is back in the creature's voice, a mock-sympathy that makes the hair on Bahorel's arms attempt to stand up straight. _I'm afraid that this nightmare is for you alone._

"Is this a test, then?" Bahorel stands slowly, wiping the hand that had touched Jehan's body on his trousers. The ghost of a chill doesn't seem to want to leave, though. "Or have I already been judged?"

_What do you think, Bahorel?_ There's false concern, false civility in the tone, and the creature circles him again, moving predator-swift. A cat toying with a rat—no, a cat toying with a mouse. This creature has no concept that Bahorel could bite. This creature is taking joy in his discomfort, in the pain of having him watch the execution of a friend.

"I think you are a cruel and vicious thing." He speaks slowly, turning to keep pace with the monster, to keep it in his sights. If the demon comes close enough, perhaps he can hurt it, one being of spirit to another. "I think listening to you would be foolish."

_But you've been left in my care!_ The creature mewls, a sound of injured pride and hospitality rudely refused. _You've been given to me. You bear my mark, Bahorel. You belong to me._

"I belong to no one and nothing but myself." Scowling at the monster, he takes a step toward it. "I reject you. I reject your lies."

_I'm not some petty demon of your imagining, able to be banished with a few brave words._ The creature doesn't laugh, but the laughter is in its voice. It stays back from him, though, circling, moving, flowing in and out of the shadows, and Bahorel watches that with interest. Perhaps it is wary of him, just a little bit. _Now come. I've much more to show you before you pass judgment on the events of this night._

They hadn't walked back to the barricade. They hadn't moved far from Jehan's body at all, but the barricade is under Bahorel's feet anyway, and he stumbles as a step meant to be taken on flat ground instead bangs his knee against the barricade and threatens to send him stumbling down.

He doesn't understand what's happening at first. It's too quiet, too still, the smoke of guns along the street the only thing that seems to be moving.

Then he sees the boy, skittering from body to body, and he turns his face away. "I will not watch a child die for your sport. What kind of bas—"

_Watch or not. You'll hear, and you'll know._

He does hear. If there were a way to stop hearing, he would, but instead some morbid piece of his mind insists on picking apart each sound. That ricochet hit the barricade; that one the street; that one struck a body, but not the child's, because Gavroche continues to sing his mocking song.

Eventually, though, the song ends, and Bahorel finds himself blinking away tears as he meets the infuriating red eyes narrowed in faux sympathy.

_Such a pity._ The black shadow that is its head shakes. _If only someone had been there to stop him… to take his place… to send him away. If only he hadn't stood with Enjolras. If only—_

"If only the ones running the world had seen him, his thinness, his bravery, his cunning, and instead of kicking him like a mongrel dog offered him hope for a new tomorrow. If only the revolution hadn't been _necessary_, if he only hadn't been dying in the old world—"

_He was living in the old world, Bahorel. He was finding food, and shelter, and through his cleverness he was surviving. For your brave new world he died… and bought what with his young blood?_

"He bought tomorrow. He helped us make a better world." The words sound hollow, and Bahorel knows what the creature's retort is going to be before it comes. There could only be one reason for the quick flash of pointed teeth when he said what the boy died for.

_He died for nothing. Your revolution brought nothing. Your death bought nothing, and neither did his, and neither will any of the others. Come, Bahorel. Let us see how the great Revolution ended._

He doesn't watch any of them die. It can't force him to, though it somehow seems able to bend time, to twist space, so that he is present for the deaths of each of his friends. He gets to hear each one die clearly, even the ones who fall close together—even the ones who fall together. The first time they follow Enjolras, from furious battle into silence into death; the second time they follow Grantaire, darkness and silence into violence into death.

He never tells the monster that it's right as it taunts him, torments him, telling him just enough about each death to make the ache that much more poignant.

He does eventually stop telling it that it's wrong, his voice too heavy with loss and bitter frustration to be comprehensible even if could force the words out.

XXX

He wakes with tears in his throat, in his eyes, unshed tears of sorrow and fury and desperation. It's a strange feeling, because he cries rarely, but there's more than enough reason for it.

He watched them all die, standing at their sides as a useless shade. He watched them all fall for a people who failed, once more, to understand which side was fighting for them.

Jehan.

Gavroche.

Laigle. (_Lyle._)

Joly. (_Jona._)

Grantaire. (_Grant._)

Feuilly. (_Finny._)

Cori. (_Courfeyrac._)

Con. (_Combeferre._)

Eric. (_Enjolras._)

"Oh, God." Shaking his head in confusion, Barry tries to sort the morass of names and affection and agony into some semblance of order. "I did not drink nearly enough last night to make this a fair punishment."

Speaking helps, pushing the bizarre names overlaying the faces of his friends deeper into the recesses of his mind. It doesn't make the strange dream any nicer, but it makes it less… real, somehow. It makes it less of an immediate threat, the sense of loss less an impending sentiment of loneliness and despair and more a curious distraction.

No one else in the apartment is awake, the closed door to Jona and Lyle's master bedroom telling him in no uncertain terms that he'll have to face the morning alone. He can't blame them, really. It's just past seven on a Sunday, and Jona and Lyle had been up late last night discussing something in excruciating detail. Barry can't quite remember _what_, so maybe he did drink enough to warrant a nightmare or two, but _really_…

"Just because we're trying to stop the war—among other tasks—doesn't mean we have to be bloody paranoid about it." Running his hands through his sweat-slicked hair, Barry glowers at the refrigerator door. "They're not going to reinstate the draft. They're not stupid enough to do that, not in an election year. And even if they _did_, we wouldn't be fighting in the street in period clothes and I wouldn't be the first one to die. I'm not going to curse anyone by saying who _would_ be the first to die, but it wouldn't be me."

The refrigerator doesn't answer. He hadn't expected it to, anyway, and with a sigh of frustration he yanks open the freezer and pulls out the packet of Ego waffles that has been hiding there for the last two weeks. Sometimes there's just nothing like a childhood food to make you feel better.

By the time he's done with breakfast he's calmer, if somewhat restless. A shower and dressing doesn't help with the restlessness; if anything, it makes it worse, and he finds himself prowling around the living room, debating what to do. After a few minutes of trying and failing to focus on his homework for tomorrow, he sighs and pulls out his phone. Just because most normal sane people won't be up now doesn't mean there's no one he can call for a distraction from the images still haunting him.

_Hey, E._

The text message cursor blinks at him, and he wonders when he started using Grant's pet name—well, letter, syllable—for Eric. It doesn't really matter, of course.

(_Did you join in the use of pet names for your friends?_)

Shaking his head, Barry quickly finishes the message. _Are you awake? If yes, work or play, and if play, anything I can help with?_

They're supposed to have a meeting tonight, to go over how everything went and finalize plans for their next event, but Eric's usually working two or three steps ahead of everyone else. If there's anything Barry can do to help, it'll make the morning feel much less wasted.

A creak from the hallway tells him that either Jona or Lyle has deigned to join him, at least for a few minutes, and he looks up hopefully.

A woman stands uncertainly in the hallway, dressed in a T-shirt that looks suspiciously like Jona's and sweat pants. She smiles at him, right hand rising and fingers waggling slightly in an awkward greeting. "Hi."

"Hi." The word rolls off his tongue slowly, holding a half-dozen questions that he knows he's probably better off not asking.

"You must be Barry." The woman brushes her tousled dark hair back from her eyes, and her smile takes on a knowing look, as though she's sharing a joke with him. "I'm Maria. Jona and Lyle told me a lot about you. Usually I would be a little better dressed when meeting people, but they assured me you wouldn't get up until long after I was gone."

"I suppose I'm glad they talk about me." Barry can feel his eyebrows trying to climb up to his hairline, but he doesn't care enough to pull them back down. "I must confess, sadly, that they haven't told me much about you. Or anything, really."

"Yeah. It's… complicated." The woman's hands clasp together and then break apart, a gesture of dismissal and understanding. "I'm their… friend."

Barry's phone chooses that moment to trill that he has a text message, giving him an excuse to not answer. Not that it matters all that much—the woman seems nice enough, and she's certainly pretty, in a heavier, curvier way than most models are. And Jona and Lyle have been close since second semester, when they decided to room together following Lyle's disastrous first roommate and an incident involving a knife and Lyle's first laptop. If they're—

And he isn't going to think about this any more. He's not going to jump to conclusions. He's not going to make assumptions. He's going to think about Eric and cultural change and anything other than his friend's sex lives.

At least he's quite certain Eric doesn't have a sex life, meaning he won't have to worry about not thinking about it when he's with Eric.

The text is short and succinct, though in perfect English as usual. _If by play you mean non-legal work, yes. At downtown library if you want to join me._

"It's been really nice meeting you, Maria, but I've got to go see a friend." Flipping his phone closed, he hesitates before holding his hand out to the woman to shake. "I'm sure we'll be properly introduced later."

"I'm sure we will be, Barry." Maria takes his hand and grasps it firmly, smiling ruefully as she does. "I wouldn't have chosen to meet like this, but you've been quite the gentleman about it."

"That's me. Always the perfect gentleman." Returning her smile, he backs toward the corner of the living room where his bag usually lives.

He manages to trip over a shoe, and Jona's psychotic cat decides that his ankle looks delicious while he's still recovering from the shoe, but otherwise his retreat goes exactly as planned.

XXX

The downtown library is old by US standards, young by New England standards, and infantile by world standards. It's a handsome old building, well-renovated despite its age, and every square inch is utilized by a library staff desperate to find new places to store books, from the basement to the widow's walk.

Granted, Barry's not sure why the architects even _built_ a widow's walk on a building when the nearest body of water is well over the horizon, but sometimes it's better just to take East Coast architecture as it comes.

It's not hard to find Eric's workplace. There are only a half-dozen tables crammed into the library, of those only two are occupied, and only one of those has enough paper on it to start a small bonfire. That and Barry just can't imagine Eric reading the latest scintillating spy thriller, even though it looks halfway decent.

Eric appears while Barry's still debating which chair to sit down in, arms overflowing with bound journals.

Barry scowls at the journals in Eric's hands. "I thought you said you were playing."

"No. I said I was working, but that the work was non-legal." A smile twitches at the corner of Eric's mouth, just a ghost of good humor. The skin under his eyes is so dark it appears bruised, as though someone punched him in the nose and gave him two black eyes. "And it is. I already did what I needed to do for my internship. Now I'm going through any old publications from the area, looking for stories that might help us."

"Come again?" Barry draws his attention back to what Eric's saying, trying not to frown too hard at the way the other man looks.

"I'm looking for stories. Discrimination, brutality, anything that'll help us find a way into these people's hearts." Eric separates the books in his hand into three neat piles before settling down. Though it's actually more falling down than settling down, lacking Eric's usual grace, and Eric's hands are shaking, just a minute tremble, and Barry really doesn't like the way he looks.

Still, Eric's a grown man; if he's hanging around researching things in a library, he can't be feeling too ill. "Why?"

Eric's head comes back up from studying the first book, a line appearing between his eyes as he frowns in consternation. "Why what?"

"Why look for stories?" Barry gestures at the books. "If they care about whatever you find, they'll already know about it."

"Yes, but I want them to see that _we_ care." Eric's eyes go back to the book. "They don't trust us. They're wary and afraid of us. They hang back, and they only listen to half of what we say because they're waiting for the other shoe to drop, the one with the knife in it."

"That is one hell of a mixed metaphor." Which is odd, because Eric's usually very precise in his word choice, but Barry is not going to worry about it. He's not. "I get the gist of what you're saying, but I'm not sure that this is the right way to go about it. Even if you find things, they'll know you're fishing. You can't solve intersectionality problems by pretending that you're on the other side of the aisle from where you really are. We're straight rich white boys from wealthy communities. They're not going to trust us, and pretending we're a part of their community won't help that."

"You're straight. Con and Cori aren't. I'm not." Eric rubs at his temples, eyes closing slowly before being forced back open.

Barry waits for him to say more, but nothing seems forthcoming. Odd. Eric could have taken his simply inaccurate statement apart piece by piece, pointing out who isn't rich and who didn't grow up in wealthy communities. Normally he would have, not making half an argument before his attention wandered off. Trying to summon a smile to hide his uneasiness, Barry shrugs. "You're ace. It's close enough to straight in most people's books."

"Most people don't know enough about it to have an opinion." Eric's hands drop to the tabletop, his fingers spreading out. Shaking his head, he slowly clenches his fingers into fists before relaxing them again. "But considering getting them to vote _and_ not having them vote against their own best interests _and_ not having them vote down the LGBT amendments is proving to be harder than I expected, educating them on something like asexuality seems like a bit of a stretch."

"We knew it would be difficult." Barry shrugs again. "We all accepted the difficulty. It'll be worth it."

"It should be." Eric continues to study his hands. "It _should_ be. Even if we fail, we'll have helped in some ways. We'll at least have spread the message a little bit. We'll—"

"Eric." Barry reaches over the table, his fingers glancing across Eric's hand gently. The touch brings the almost frantic rambling to a halt, and Eric raises haunted blue eyes to meet Barry's gaze for the first time. "Eric, what happened?"

"Nothing." Another ghost-smile tugs at Eric's lips, though this one has a hint of bitterness and frustration about it. "Nothing real, at least. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have invited you if I was just going to be bad company."

"I was actually pretty grateful you invited me. Saved me from a somewhat awkward situation, and possibly kept Jona and Lyle from getting the slight beating that they deserve for putting me in it."

Eric frowns, the haunted look disappearing, replaced by curiosity and confusion. "What did they do?"

Barry stifles a snort of laughter, resisting the urge to correct the _what_ to a _who_. Out loud, at least. He can say whatever he wants inside his own head, and thank heaven for that small blessing. "I shouldn't say anything more. I haven't talked to them. Maybe it's nothing like what I'm thinking. Maybe there's a perfectly mundane explanation. Maybe by friend a friend is meant, and I have severely overblown everything in my sleep-deprived state."

"You're not making much sense." Eric's frown deepens, taking on the irked edge it gets whenever he's certain that there's something easy he's missing. It's a look he usually wears when they're discussing anything involving romance, and it fits him more than the haunted uncertainty did.

"I'm making plenty of sense to me." Grinning at the blond man, Barry leans back in his chair. "Anything you need to talk about, though, since I would be loathe to spread unfounded rumors and you look like you could use a break?"

"I'm all right. I just… haven't been sleeping well." A shiver runs the length of Eric's body, that same haunted uncertainty filling his face for a moment, and Barry sighs in sympathy.

"I actually had a pretty nasty nightmare last night, too." Scratching at his neck, he allows his eyes to drift away from Eric, down to the floor. He doesn't make it a habit to talk about things that bother him, but if Eric needs to talk and this'll make him feel more at ease… "It was stupid, really, but it freaked me out. I dreamt we were in a war. All of us—you, me, Jona, Lyle, Con, Cori, Grant, the whole lot. We all died. Talk about paranoid, huh? It really shook me up, though. I woke up crying."

Eric seems to relax somewhat, tension leaving his shoulders, the tremble fading from his hands. "I've… had similar dreams. About fighting in a war. About leading men—leading our friends—and everyone… I know they're just dreams, I know it's paranoid, I _know_ it's not real, but sometimes…"

"Sometimes it doesn't have to be real for it to hurt something fierce." The words are thick with emotion, and Barry takes a moment to clear his throat before continuing. Stupid dream. Stupid reaction to stupid dream. "Come on, Eric. You know you're not going to find anything that's going to really help you in old stories. You've got everything you need in that head and heart of yours, and standing next to you in Con and Cori, and working the crowd with Jona and Lyle and me and the rest. We'll give it our best shot, and if it doesn't work… we'll try again next time. We'll keep fighting the good fight. That's the nice thing about elections and educating people. Even if it doesn't work once, you can keep trying. It's not a one-time chance."

"Right." Eric nods, slowly shoving the book in front of him away. "You're right. I'm sorry, Barry. I don't—"

"No apologizing. It's too weird." Standing abruptly, he glances through the papers and books scattered across the table. "What else did you have planned?"

"I think I've done most of the rest." Eric manages to sort the papers into neat piles in the span of a few seconds, seeming to know where everything goes instinctively. "I made the agenda, Con's proofing the next hand-out, Grant offered to make the copies we need for tonight and Wednesday—"

"Grant?" Barry looks up in surprise. "He offered?"

"He did. Hopefully he remembers, since I'm fairly certain he was still drunk when he made the offer at five this morning, but he had me leave him a note and everything." The smile is stronger this time, though as much bemused as amused. "He says if I'm going to be helping him, he's going to do 'as much as he damn well can' to help me in return, especially since it's 'inconcievable and immoral and even irreconcilable and leaves him inconsolable' that I look as exhausted as I do. I'm fairly certain he was just rambling i-words at that point, though."

Barry keeps his mouth closed until he's quite certain he isn't going to just burst into laughter at the look of mixed confusion and disgruntlement on Eric's face as he quotes Grant. "You _do_ look pretty tired."

"I'll be fine." Eric legitimately smiles as he says the words, an expression that softens his features, turns the fierce energy in his eyes from something to be wary of to something to revel in.

And that's the last time Barry is going to think about Eric's eyes. He isn't Grant. He respects Eric as a fellow man of passionate convictions, and that's it. "So everything you needed to get done today is done?"

"There's still plenty we can do." Reaching down into his bag, Eric pulls out another stack of papers. "The war protest is Wednesday; our next election rally is scheduled for Saturday. We need to talk more about the issues and the candidates in concrete terms if—"

"Is this anything that can't wait until tonight, when all of us are there to bounce ideas off of and give you, Con and Cori some proper feedback?" Barry speaks patiently, quietly.

Eric raises his head slowly, brows drawn together in confusion again. "You said that you wanted—"

"I do want to help. I intend to help to my fullest capacity." The grin he had been suppressing gets the better of him, and Barry smiles wolfishly at Eric. "How long has it been since you practiced that zapita of yours?"

"The form you're going for is _zipota_. But I don't think…" Eric sets the papers down slowly, actually considering the suggestion.

"That's a blatant lie. You think way too much. And before you start talking yourself out of it too strongly, tell yourself this will be a nice thing to do for me. I had a rough night, now that I'm sitting down to work I'm not so keen on doing it, and I think hitting things would make me feel a lot better."

"And by hitting things, you'd like to mean hitting me." Eric's expression is completely grave, making it hard to tell if he understands the joking component to what he's saying or not.

"I mean I think you'd feel better getting to let out a little pent-up frustration and aggression, too." Spreading his hands out to the side, Barry smiles. "What do you say? Run a few sparring rounds with me, pretty boy?"

"Complimenting me doesn't work all that well as an insult. And since the implied insult is that I'm too feminine, it also goes against some of the ideals that we preach." Eric smiles as he makes the correction, letting Barry know that he isn't really angry. The smile fades as Eric looks down at the table, hesitating still. The haunted indecision is back in his expression, and Barry has to fight not to shiver at it. Eric looking uncertain is just _wrong_.

"Who said I meant it as an insult?" Barry starts gathering Eric's papers together. "You're pretty and you're a boy. A man, I suppose, though you could certainly pass as someone underage, which sounds way worse out loud than it did in my head, so we'll skip that part. But the main point is that you could be a target, and it's important to keep your self-defense skills up to par."

"I'm hardly a target." Eric stands, as well, taking the papers and filing them in some incomprehensible way in his backpack. "But it's important for everyone to be able to defend themselves and others, and it has been a while since I practiced. If you'd really like my company as a sparring partner…"

Barry smiles, knowing that he's won. "Great. Because I do."

"It'll take me a little bit to get to the gym." Eric hauls his bag onto his shoulder. "I biked here."

\

"I had kind of figured that, since you don't have a car. I, however, am not as scrupulous about certain things as you, and I _do_ have a car, and I should be able to transport your bike through this miraculous invention known as a bike rack."

Eric narrows his eyes. "I don't _need_ a car. I manage to get everywhere I want to go without one."

"No one _needs_ a car, but it makes things a hell of a lot easier." Grabbing Eric's arm, he drags the other man toward the library exit. "Like now, it's going to make my and your life easier."

"It also may end up making your life shorter. I'm not sure calling the monstrosity that you drive around a car is fair to the other vehicles on the road." Eric doesn't fight being dragged off, just a slight smile on his face. It's always nice to hear him joking, relaxing, and Barry realizes that it's something that hasn't happened often in the last few weeks.

"It has four wheels, it has an engine, and it goes from place to place via the engine and the wheels. I'm pretty sure that falls under the type of _car_."

"Types are from biology; not being a biological organism, I'm fairly certain modes of transportation can't have types. Besides, I think _car_ would be more akin to family or at the lowest classification a genus rather than a species."

"Now you're just being difficult."

"No, I'm being knowledgeable. It's a small but subtle difference that many people seem incapable of discerning."

"Eric, shut up, give me the key to your bike lock, and get in the car."

After a moment's hesitation, Eric does just that, collapsing into the passenger's seat with a deep sigh. Heading toward where Eric's bike is very thoroughly anchored to the rusty bike rack, Barry shakes his head.

He really hopes that this outing will be what Eric needs.


	6. Part Six: Face-Off

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Les Mis.

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay. There were a lot of real life troubles with my family, and I was having some doubts about life, the universe, and my writing. I plan on continuing both stories and finishing them, however. Hopefully people continue to enjoy!

_Part Six: Face-Off_

The gym's almost completely deserted when they arrive, and becomes completed deserted before they've finished warming up. Mid-Sunday morning is apparently a good time to get a private work-out. Barry considers the costs and benefits for a moment before deciding that it usually wouldn't be worth the lost sleep.

He watches Eric stretch, doing his own pre-sparring routine. The other man's approximately the same height as Barry, but they're built completely differently. Where Barry has bulk, Eric's all slender angles. Eric's built like a cat, sleek and agile, and he uses his build to his advantage when he fights.

Which is fine by Barry. He can't suppress a grin as he faces off with Eric, though truth be told he doesn't try very hard. He enjoys fighting. He enjoys the adrenaline rush. He enjoys knowing his own body, reading his opponent, directing his attacks and reacting to his opponent's attacks and being entirely focused on one immediate threat to the exclusion of all else.

It makes it even better when it's a friend, someone he knows, someone he can trust, someone who isn't going to leave him bloody and cursing if he reads something wrong.

Eric gets in the first blow. It's a kick, which Barry should have been expecting. Whatever ridiculous word it was for the martial art Eric learned when young—zipota, that was it—it focused on legwork. It would make sense for a tired Eric to fall back into the most familiar patterns his body has when fighting, and he does.

At least for a few moves, but as soon as Barry expects it Eric changes his tactics, bringing in punches that he definitely didn't learn with zipota. Given all his other talents, it's really unfair how well Eric fights.

And Barry intends to enjoy every minute of it.

He lets Eric lead the match for the first few minutes, focusing on blocking, sizing up Eric's attacks and letting Eric wear himself down. It takes Eric longer than usual to notice, too, but Barry thinks it might actually be for the best. The look of fierce concentration and almost rapturous certainty on Eric's face as he loses himself in the fight is infinitely preferable to the hesitancy and fear that had been present before.

Eric tires too quickly, though, gets too confident with his attacks, and Barry grins in triumph as he manages to snag Eric's shoulder and uses the blond's momentum to send him crashing to the floor. There's a chancy half-second where Eric struggles, twisting and turning like an otter, but Barry has a firm hold of Eric's arm and short of dislocating his shoulder there's no way for Eric to escape.

"You yield?"

Eric hesitates just a fraction of a second too long before relaxing completely in one disconcerting instant. "I yield… if you'll show me what you did and what I did wrong."

Barry scowls at the other man. "You know that the other options to yielding are either us sitting like this all day or you getting your arm broken."

"I know." Eric smiles, twisting his head around so he can see Barry. "I also know you're going to take the conditions."

"Heh. I think you're starting to know me too well." Letting go of Eric's arm, he offers the man a hand up.

They spend hours sparring. They have spectators sometimes; at other times they're left alone in their padded corner of the gym. Barry doesn't mind, and Eric doesn't seem to notice whether anyone else is there or not. Eric is focused entirely on the dueling, on teaching and learning techniques, mixing martial arts forms with barroom brawl tactics, somehow managing to make everything he does look graceful and appropriate. They're careful with their sparring, and though Barry's muscles are burning from exertion by the time he calls it quits he only has an extra bruise or two.

He _feels_ better, too. There's something about fighting that feels _right_, that feels real and legitimate in a way that washes away the awful helplessness and restlessness that lingered from the dream. Eric seems to be doing better, as well, the tremble gone from his hands, a slight smile on his face. He still looks exhausted, but it looks like a healthier kind of exhaustion, an earned physical exhaustion.

All in all, Barry's pretty pleased with how the morning went.

XXX

Eric falls asleep in the car on the way to his and Grant's apartment.

He doesn't mean to. It's not even a very restful trip, the poor shocks in Barry's car making every dent in the road into an exciting date with physics. He's tired, though, physically exhausted in a way he hasn't been in weeks, and coupled with the mental strain of the nightmares and their planning and activism it's enough to send him quickly over the edge into a deep sleep.

He doesn't realize it's a dream at first. It's always hard for him to notice when it's a dream. He's too used to trusting himself, to trusting his own senses, his own memory, and having to second-guess every move, every emotion, every shadow and friend and foe isn't something that comes easily.

It's too quiet, though. He can't remember a time when it's been so quiet, not in recent memory.

It _should_ be quiet. There's no one else in the Café Musain, so it makes sense for it to be quiet. When the others come, later, when Grantaire and Bahorel and Combeferre and Courfeyrac and the rest join him, _then_ there will be sound.

Not the sound of gunfire, not the sound of cannon, not the sound of men screaming, though, and he realizes that this is what he's waiting for. This is what he expects. This is what his mind, his soul is preparing for, bracing itself against, and that can't be right.

He can't be here.

And none of them will be joining him, because they all died.

_He_ died, the last of them, but not alone. Never alone, because Grantaire would follow him happily into hell if he'd just smile at the man, and—

And he doesn't _know_ anyone named Grantaire. He doesn't know the language running through his head, the language that he can understand, and he doesn't want this. He doesn't want—

It hurts, in a way. It's not the roaring agony that it had been before, not the pain that accompanied fighting with this man who shares his soul, because they're not striving to hurt each other. He thinks the _other_—Enjolras, that's the other's name, the murderer, the revolutionary, the leader, the one the shadow taunts—he thinks the _other_ actually wants to see him, to talk to him.

Which should be interesting, given that they speak two entirely different languages, but maybe it'll work. The seeing has worked, at least, and Eric stumbles to his feet in order to face off with… himself.

It's not a perfect match. It shouldn't be, and it isn't. Their hair has slightly different shades, completely different styles. But there is enough similarity to their features for him to recognize himself, and the _eyes_…

Everyone who has ever talked to him about his features has mentioned his eyes. So blue, they say, so deep, so cold, so _fierce_, so certain, so fiery, so alive, and he finally thinks he understands, looking into this doppelganger's expression. The eyes are the window to the soul, and this man is very certain of his soul, allows it to show brightly, without fear of reprisal or repercussion.

"Eric." The man says the name with an accent. He reaches out slowly with his right hand, palm up, as one would to a wild dog. His expression is wary, but there's also something… bright buried in it. Hope, perhaps, and Eric finds his gaze flicking between the man's hand and his face in rapid succession. "_Eric._"

A string of foreign words follows the repetition of his name, and Eric takes a step back, shaking his head. He doesn't understand. He can't. He's never taken French. Spanish was his Romance language of choice, and he's allowed even that to get rusty in the last year.

Except he _can_ understand. If he allows himself to, if he tries to, he can comprehend what the other man's saying. He can read the thoughts straight from Enjolras' mind, at a base level, beyond words. He can feel the emotions that are hidden in the other man's expression, the fragile hope, the hesitancy, the desire. He can see _himself_, as Enjolras sees him, equally exotic, a haunting similarity overlaying their differences, equally unknown, equally bound in this untenable position.

"No." Shaking his head, Eric takes a shaky step away from Enjolras. "I don't… I'm not you. I don't understand what you're saying. I shouldn't _be_ here."

Enjolras' hand falls to his side slowly, hope fading, frustration taking its place. After a few moments the blond man shrugs, gesturing around them at the quiet café. "Home."

"No." Shaking his head again, Eric looks around. There is literally no one else in the café now, a café decorated in an archaic fashion, but with stains on the tables to show that this is no replica, no playing at history. "This wasn't your home."

It wasn't, but it was. It was the place he met with his friends. It was the place they planned the future together, the place they worked together toward a shared labor of love and hope. It was—

"Please, Eric."

The words are less accented, the language being taken from Eric, spoken as he would speak it, and Eric shivers¸ squeezing his eyes closed. It doesn't really matter, because he can still see through Enjolras' eyes, but it helps to at least cut down on the overpowering sense of duality.

"Help me. Help _us_. Please."

"How?" He whispers the word, no longer certain if it's in English or not, if he's borrowing Enjolras' words or if Enjolras' borrowing his. "I don't know how. I don't even know if I _should_."

That word, that thought, a secret fear carelessly given form, that's what hurts Enjolras. That's what drives him back, his right hand pressing to his chest as though covering a blow, a wound, a gunshot. Blood starts to seep out between his fingers, a vivid red against the white of his shirt.

"You did everything it's accused you of, didn't you?" Eric opens his eyes, and the duality of vision is gone, the language in his mind is English, the certainty burns in his eyes and the uncertainty shines from Enjolras' expression. "You led your friends to their deaths. You let a _child _die for you. You killed men… so many men… for a failed revolution, for a battle that you knew you'd _lost_."

"_No._" The negation has passion to it, but there's also pain. Enjolras doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to believe it, won't back away from the accusations, but they hurt anyway. "No."

"I'm not you." Eric takes a step forward, and the café dissolves around them, replaced by one of the lecture halls at school. One of the small ones, where he's met with the others before, where they go to plan their next move, and he smiles. His dreams, his place, his people, his war, and he can handle this. "I don't know how to save you. I would if I could, because no one deserves to suffer like you are and because I'm getting really sick of suffering with you. But I'm not you, and I never will be. I have my own wars to fight, and I intend to actually win them."

Enjolras doesn't step back until Eric's right in front of him. Even when he does, it's more a hedging than an actual step back, a rearrangement of his feet in case of a fight. There's no need to fight, though. Eric doesn't _want _to fight, just like he didn't _want_ to hurt Enjolras. He didn't intend to make the other man bleed, and he raises his hand to place it over Enjolras'. Blood continues to trickle down the other man's chest, but it seems to slow.

"Eric." Enjolras' voice breaks on the name, and there's too much fear, too much hesitancy in his eyes. Can he even understand what Eric's saying? Or has Eric's refusal, his separation of the two of them, stripped him of that ability? Does he just see an impossible doppleganger of himself, speaking nonsense, causing him pain?

"I'm sorry." Eric doesn't meet the ghost's eyes, instead watching the slow spread of blood across his chest. He doesn't want to hurt this man; he just wants things to _stop_, at least for a little while. "I'm sorry for how things went, and I'm sorry I don't know how to fix this. So let's just sleep, all right? Let's sleep, and maybe things will be all right when we wake up."

He thinks he sees Enjolras nod, just the barest movement of the man's head, but it could just be his imagination as the dream dissolves into nothing around them.

XXX

Eric falls asleep within two minutes of settling into the car.

It's not something he's ever done before. Eric always seems to be awake, alert, not necessarily on edge but at least _ready_. It's disconcerting to see him sleeping, completely relaxed and vulnerable. It's even more disconcerting when he starts dreaming.

Barry considers waking him, especially when a sound that might be a grunt of pain slips out and his right arm twitches up towards his chest, but if he's exhausted enough to fall asleep in the car, he probably needs the rest.

EricHEriE goes from whatever dream or nightmare he was having into a deeper sleep quickly, anyway, falling completely limp against the seat belt. Barry finds himself looking over every thirty seconds or so just to make sure the blond man's still breathing.

It doesn't take nearly long enough to get to Eric and Grant's place. Barry considers driving around for a few minutes, just letting Eric get some apparently much-needed rest, but eventually decides against it. Eric will take care of himself as he sees fit. If he needs to sleep, he can always go sleep in his own bed, which is probably infinitely more comfortable than Barry's car.

Eric doesn't wake up when Barry stops the car. He doesn't wake up as Barry disentangles Eric's bike from the bike rack, a process that involves a small amount of chipped paint from the bike and a moderate amount of frustrated cursing. He doesn't even wake up when Barry opens the passenger door, his head resting limply against the seat cushion.

"If you don't go to your room and crawl into bed, Eric, I might have to break my every-man-makes-his-own-choices rule in order to tie you to it." Barry mutters the warning to an unresponsive ear before reaching into the car to shake Eric's shoulder. "Come on, my friend. Time to crawl upstairs."

It takes Eric a good thirty seconds to wake up. It's thirty seconds during which he stares at the car, at his hands, at the parking lot, at the electrical wires with a look of confusion and disorientation that Barry doesn't like. It isn't until Eric's eyes fix on Barry that he seems to relax, and eventually to smile.

"Hey." Stepping back so that Eric can undo his seatbelt and clamber out of the car, Barry tries to look nonchalant and not worried. He's not sure he succeeds very well. "Are you sure you're all right? You're not coming down with something, are you?"

"I'm fine." Eric climbs slowly out of the car. He takes a hesitant step forward, from the car onto blacktop; he tries to take another step, but ends up falling instead.

Barry reaches out quickly, grabbing Eric before he can hit the pavement. "You're fine, huh? You don't need a doctor, right?"

"I _don't_." Eric shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut, and finally straightens after a few seconds. "I'll be fine in a moment. I just… I shouldn't have hurt him. No. That's just a dream. Ah, I'm sorry. I'll be fine in a minute. It's just a bit of dizziness."

"Yeah, you're not convincing me you're fine."

Eric straightens, gathering his dignity and composure as he pulls away from Barry. "I really am, though. There's nothing wrong with me. Just a few nightmares and some lack of sleep."

"If you're sure." Barry shoves his hands in his pockets. If Eric falls again, let the man hit the ground. Maybe it'll help him realize exactly how unkind gravity could be. "You should take a break every once in a while. You wearing yourself out isn't going to help the rest of us at all. Split the work more evenly if it's getting to you."

"It's not that." Eric walks beside him as they make their way into the building, his pace just a little slower than usual. "I can handle our work. I don't call it play because it feels too… demeaning to the cause, but it's… satisfying. It feels _right_, working towards the betterment of everyone, toward a world where equality and fairness are truly honored and not just paid lip service. It's not responsible for how I feel."

"If you're having nightmares that are screwing you up to the point that you're _collapsing_, Eric, something's not right. Maybe you should talk—"

"I'm going to shower and then I'm going to sleep. Then I'm going to meet with everyone tonight, and we're going to hammer out our plans for the next few weeks, and I promise I will be the epitome of health. All right?" Eric pauses with his key in his hand outside the door to his apartment.

"All right." Barry rubs at his neck, trying not to feel sheepish or overbearing. "Sounds good. I'll come in for a few minutes if it's okay, talk to Grant, and then I'll leave you guys to enjoy your afternoon."

"You're always welcome here. Any of our friends are." Eric smiles gently as he unlocks the door in one deft movement. "And Barry… thank you for the sparring. It did help, I think. I feel more like myself than I have in a while."

"No problem." Barry shrugs off the gratitude. "Like I said, I did it as much for me as for you. I needed the practice and I needed the physical exertion. If it helped with whatever's causing you problems, then I'd say that that's a win-win situation."

"You're a better man than you like to give yourself credit for." Eric opens the door quietly, lowering his voice as he does in deference to Grant's sometimes-odd sleep schedules. "I think most of our group is."

"Enough maudlin. Go shower." Barry shoos Eric into the room and toward the shower, shouldering his way to the couch and a hesitantly smiling Grant. An easel's set up in the middle of the living room, carefully situated so that the light strikes it in what's undoubtedly a particular and artistic way. Or maybe Grant just wanted his back to the light and the TV still partially visible.

Throwing himself down on the couch, Barry decides that he doesn't really care one way or another. He's just happy to relax and get a chance to catch up with another of his friends.

The fact that he stays until Eric's showered and crawled into bed for what seems like a restful sleep is entirely a coincidence.

It still makes him feel slightly better when he leaves, as does the way Grant watches Eric whenever it wouldn't be an inconvenience for the blond man.

Say whatever else you would about Grant, there's no one Barry would trust more to look out for Eric's best interests.


	7. Part Seven: Mirror, Mirror

**Disclaimer:** I didn't create any of the Les Mis characters; I just had fun with the invention of their reincarnates.

**Author's Note/Warnings:** Warnings for homophobia and for mentions of arousal, though nothing really graphic; also, the usual mentions of blood and death that go with the barricade. Enjoy!

_Part Seven: Mirror, Mirror_

"Stand, citizens!"

They try. They stand by him as long as Courfeyrac could ask, until the National Guard is pouring over the barricade, until less than half of them are still capable of wielding weapons. They stand with him until he falls, blood slick on his hands, too weak and disoriented to hold a gun.

He still tries to rally them. He tries to scream out orders, pleas, hopes for a better future, truths about their disastrous present. If he can make just one man see, even now… if he can turn the tide for just one more moment, give Enjolras and the rest just a few spare seconds to live, to breathe, to plan…

_A few seconds more or less made no difference._ The voice is softly amused, filling the air around him, and it seems too quiet for him to be hearing it as clearly as he is. _I've shown you before, but it's always fun to show you again._

Courfeyrac screams, a sound of agony and denial ripped from the core of his being as his memory provides him with images he never wanted to see once, let alone multiple times. His friends, his dearest friends, dying one by one, the light and life fading from their eyes, and he is left alone.

A shade, a ghost, a wandering vagrant in a sea of corpses, and he doesn't want this. He doesn't want to go through this again. Wasn't once enough? Wasn't twice through this hell payment for the sins he committed?

All right, maybe not payment enough for all of them, but surely to do _this_ to him again and again and again…

_We could always come up with something a little more… creative._

The voice is mocking, taunting, and Courfeyrac would face the monster if he could. Dead men don't move, though, and his body is seemingly most decidedly dead, even if his heart and soul are not.

_Most decidedly not._ The amusement in the creature's voice is more genuine now, and red eyes peer down at him, framed by shadows that flow and drip but generally hold a human shape. _Your spirits are too stubborn to die so easily, and I thank them profusely for that. But if you're really tired of seeing only death, of fighting only against the profound knowledge of defeat and loss and pointlessness…_

Courfeyrac blinks, staring up at the bright orange halo of a streetlamp. Why is he on the ground? What happened? Where—?

"Courfeyrac?" Marius leans into his field of vision, the other man's face pinched, a mixture of concern and throttled amusement fighting for dominance of his features. "Courfeyrac, are you all right?"

"Quite well." Shaking his head, Courfeyrac sits up slowly, rubbing at his head and elbows, trying to remember the fall that led to his lying in the street. Rain is turning to ice on the street and the sidewalks, winter's teeth just beginning to show, and he had been careless in the placement of his feet. The carelessness hadn't been entirely his fault—his attention had some assistance in its distraction, and he looks around for the woman before sighing and accepting Marius' proffered hand to haul himself to his feet. "The only thing very badly damaged is my dignity, and that will heal given silence on your part and the finding of a beauty of equal magnitude to the one who nearly slew me here later in the night."

"Courfeyrac, you're…" Marius sighs, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "You're really quite impossible sometimes."

"I would have thought your being smitten by a beauty would have made you more rather than less appreciative of my distractions." Wiping his clothes off as well as he can, Courfeyrac straightens and begins walking again.

"Ursula is more than a simple beauty. She's—"

Courfeyrac stops listening as Marius launches into another speech about the joys and assets of his object of affection. He still nods in all the right places, having heard variations on this epistle several times before, and he does nothing to discourage the other man. Let Marius have his fun. If he does find this girl some day, Courfeyrac only hopes that either she can live up to Marius' rather exceptional expectations or that Marius will take his disappointment gently.

They join the others in the Café Musain, and Jehan spends several minutes encouraging Marius in a way that only a poet could, turning Marius' heartfelt but clumsy phrases into clever compliments and witticisms. Joly and Bossuet join in, and the conversation somehow devolves into Marius trying to defend his lady's honor while not disavowing the compliments that the others give her.

_They're really quite… cute together, aren't they?_

The words are innocent enough, but there's a mocking malice beneath the surface that sets Courfeyrac's teeth on edge as he turns to see the speaker. No one is there, though, or at least no one that appears to have been talking to him, and so Courfeyrac shakes his head and moves closer to Enjolras and Combeferre. The center of the meeting, the eye of the growing storm, and Enjolras should begin speaking soon.

_All of your friends were such beauties. The blond angel, the radiant poet, the stoic fighter—_

"Bossuet is near bald and Grantaire could only be called beautiful by someone with a cruel sense of humor or a… unique sense of taste." Spinning toward the voice, Courfeyrac hisses out the words, cautious to use a tone that won't carry. The last thing he wants is for his friends to hear only one unflattering side of this conversation. "Their looks are of no matter to me, though. It's the ideas…"

There is no one to talk to, though. Only a hint of eyes, red and baleful, in the shadows of the table, and even those are gone when he looks twice. The hair on the back of his neck prickles, and Courfeyrac looks around uncertainly. Someone is speaking to him.

_Am I? Or are you speaking with yourself? Why does it bother you that I praise their beauty?_

"Because they are much more to me than pretty faces. They are very dear friends, and to reduce them to simple aspects of beauty—"

"_I would do him in a heartbeat." I believe those were the words, at least… perhaps Enjolras could help to enhance your memory…_

Courfeyrac's eyes catch on Enjolras, and for one painful, helpless moment he can't look away. The words ring in his head, the language foreign, the phrasing bizarre and confusing, but he understands what it means. He sees Enjolras, wearing something only half-decent, displaying the fencer's muscles in his arms, and he can feel his body responding to it in an uncomfortably familiar way.

"No." Tearing his eyes away, Courfeyrac tries to suppress the fierce burn in his cheeks and the terrible ache in his groin. He likes women. He has ever since he first learned of the concept of love, and he's had enough lovers to more than prove his enthusiasm for the fairer sex. To consider a man in the same light—to consider _Enjolras_ in that light, when the revolutionary would seemingly much rather die in a street riot rather than have anything at all to do with romance—is… disquieting, to say the least. "I don't… what did you _do_ to me?"

_I did nothing._ Wide red eyes stare at him from a face that is nothing more than a collection of shadows; arms of black emptiness wrap around him, but there is a prick of claws where the creature's fingers touch that speaks to more form than just shadow. _It's who you are, Courfeyrac. Or should I say Cori? So proud of yourself, so determined not to be ashamed, but proud of what? Proud of viewing all your friends as potential objects to fuck? Proud of seeing in Enjolras not the burning leader but a beautiful virgin? Of seeing Combeferre as so much potential fun, all that knowledge of the world locked away in his head? Of contemplating how often Joly and Laigle have fucked, and whether they would ever want another partner? Of hearing Jehan's verses of love, and wondering what experience the young poet might have?_

It's the mention of Jehan that gives him the strength to break away from the creature. Every other name has twisted versions of familiar faces, broken versions of familiar names that are overlaid with it, a cacophony of words and feelings flooding his heart and head, but Jehan is only himself. Whatever nightmare, whatever poison the shadow-creature has managed to put into him, it has no reference for Jehan, and the moment of silence is Courfeyrac's moment to move.

The creature is gone when he turns to face it, though, and his friends are staring at him in astonishment and confusion.

"Courfeyrac?" Enjolras speaks first, taking a hesitant step toward him. "What happened? Are you well?"

"I—" Words catch in his throat, and it's all he can do not to move self-consciously to try to cover his body's betrayal. His clothing should hide his uncomfortable erection. "Have any of you noticed anything… odd about lately?"

"Other than you?" Grantaire lifts his bottle off the table in a silent salute. "It's good to know I'm not the only deviant in the group, though. Not the only one damned for his defects, or am I reading your salute to us incorrectly?"

(_No, no, no, I'm sorry, this isn't how it's supposed to be, this isn't what it's like—_)

The words are incomprehensible, but the meaning is clear even so, the sorrow and frustration and guilt and determined denial of guilt, and Courfeyrac backs away from his friends as he presses his hands to his head.

What's happening to him?

Why is there a stranger's voice in his mind, in his heart, and why does his body respond so eagerly to this demon's thoughts and emotions?

_His name is Cori._ The shadows whisper the words to him. _And you can hurt him, if you will it. You can drive him away, make him pay, and perhaps if you do it well enough your friends will forgive this… indiscretion._

"They wouldn't…" Shaking his head, Courfeyrac looks through sweat-dampened locks of hair at his friends. They stand frozen, staring at him in various stages of shock and horror. "No. That's not how it would be. They're my friends. They're… we're… Les Amis wouldn't turn on each other for something so… so…"

_Petty as the desire to violate them? Innocent as the urge to damn yourself and them for something as simple as fleshly fulfillment?_ The voice is a purr in his ear.

"We accept Grantaire." The words are a whisper, the best he can cobble together, drowning in the unaccustomed disdain in Enjolras' eyes, the dawning understanding in Jehan's sidelong glance, the fury in Combeferre's glance.

_He loves purely, cleanly, for the spirit, not the flesh. You, though… it's clear enough where you stand._

Shadow-fingers grope up his thigh, latch onto his traitorous prick through his clothing, and Courfeyrac howls in dismay and frustration as he fights against the hands.

There is nothing to fight, though. There is only shadow, sweeping across the Musain, drowning out the light. There is only the _other_ in his head, shouting, crying, cursing, ashamed and furious and frightened all at once, and Courfeyrac can't stand it. Not on top of his own confusion and anger, and he strives with all his might to separate the foreign voice from himself.

It hurts. It is agony like he's never known before, worse than any of the street riots he's been in, worse than the pain of dying on the barricade.

And Courfeyrac realizes, through a haze of memories of fighting and dying, that what he's seen can't be real, can't be true, never happened, because it doesn't fit. They died on the barricade in June; he wouldn't have been talking with Marius at the Musain about Ursula like this when winter was just beginning.

He never felt a stirring of lust toward his fellow Amis, and they wouldn't have damned him even if he did. Some things were more important than who a man fucked—many things, _most_ things, and if he'd had time and opportunity to examine what was happening, what was being said, to see through the façade that the shadow-monster made for him…

He tries to apologize. He tries to find the _other_, the one he hurt in his desperation and confusion.

He sees… things. Walls of pale cream, pure glass covered by strange straight blinds that make the sun into slashes of light, gadgets strewn everywhere made from material he couldn't even name.

He sees his hands, shaking, clenched into bedsheets made from an unfamiliar material, dyed a deep burgundy color.

He feels terror and shame, pain and nausea, a confusion even deeper than his own, and he tries desperately to reach out to the _other_. To Cori, if the shadow has named this man correctly.

Cori shoves him away, an understandable act of self-preservation, and Courfeyrac feels his hold on consciousness fade.

Hopefully they will be able to talk, next time, because Courfeyrac doubts very much that this young man is his enemy.

There's a much more obvious enemy, but Courfeyrac has no idea how one goes about fighting shadows.

XXX

Cori manages to make it to the toilet before throwing up the remains of his midnight pizza, though just barely. He spends a long, painful minute afterwards retching, his empty stomach grinding against itself, determined that there must be something in his digestive system responsible for the utterly debilitating nausea and pain lancing through him.

He knows that there isn't, though, and eventually his stomach catches up to his mind and gives up. Vomiting could work with normal poisons, but not the ones injected into your heart and soul by society. The humiliation, the guilt, the terror, the shame, _they're_ what he needs to expel from his body, and he could spend eternity locked in the bathroom and never come any closer to cleansing himself.

He wishes Con were here, to pat his back and stroke his hair and gently reprimand him for whatever foolish thing he did to leave him in this situation.

He's glad that Con isn't here, because he doesn't want to explain what happened to the other man. Who said Monday morning summer classes weren't good for anything?

Cori's not even sure he could explain to _himself_ what happened. It's been years since he had nightmares about his sexuality—the better part of a decade since he went through anything that left him as shaky and debilitated as this. He can't think of any reason for what happened, either. No one's said anything to him recently. He had a good night with the others, with Eric's Independents. They planned the revolution, settling their short-term goals, re-evaluating their long-term goals, and when everyone but Eric and Con were weary of discussing the topic they ordered a pizza, some beer, and whiled away a few more hours of the night just enjoying each other's company.

Maybe it was too good a night. Maybe he enjoyed himself too thoroughly, and that was why his subconscious had to resurrect old fears of rejection.

But why would he think Con would turn on him? Con's bi, and seemingly completely at ease with the identity. And Eric… Eric's asexual, and has spoken more than once about the importance of LGBT acceptance. There's no reason for him to think Eric would look on him any differently…

Except it wasn't Eric in the dream. It wasn't Con. The men looked similar to them, hauntingly similar, and they carried themselves like his friends, and there was something deeper than skin and more important than names that told him they were his companions, his allies, his dear comrades, but they were… different.

They went by different names.

_He_ went by a different name.

Not a normal name, not in the dream; not a first name, he thinks, though it was the name he went by most commonly, and the word dances tantalizingly out of his reach, as dreams tend to do. How had it started?

(_Cori?_)

He shivers, bending over the toilet again as another wave of nausea and pain stabs through his gut as he tries to rifle through the fragmenting memories of the dream. He will have the name, though. Had it begun with a Ke? A Ko?

(_Courfeyrac. My name is Courfeyrac, Cori, and I am terribly sorry that I allowed myself to be tricked into hurting us._)

Cori whimpers as his stomach clenches again, and he bends over the toilet. His hands rise without his really commanding them to, press tight against his ears, and he's not entirely certain why they do so. Courfeyrac. That was the name he had used in the dream. That was the name the shadow-creature called him by.

(_Not you, me. Well… us, I suppose. You and I, me and you, the past and the present, and it's really much easier to think logically and work this all out when we're awake and conscious in the real world without that monstrous thing bearing down on us._)

"I'm not hearing anything." His hands are pressed so tightly to his ears that it's almost painful. "I am not going to have a conversation with a dream-self. I'm not."

There's no response.

There shouldn't be a response.

He's _glad_ there's not a response, because it means he's not stark raving mad.

So why is he disappointed?

The disappointment doesn't get to last long, though. His phone trills, the happy, energetic sound that indicates a text message from someone that he hasn't bothered to give their own ring-tone to yet.

Struggling to his feet, he forces down the last of the nausea, splashes some water on his face, and goes to dig the phone out of whatever crevice of the couch it crawled into.

Dreams and dream-names can wait until later. He's got a very busy real life to attend to, and quite possibly some reaffirming of his satisfaction with his sexuality to do later tonight.


	8. Part Eight: College Boys

**Author's Note:** Thanks to all of those who reviewed! It's really appreciated, and helps give me the motivation to keep posting. Warning: This chapter has a little bit of swearing and use of a homophobic slur. Less blood and death than a lot of chapters, though. Hopefully you enjoy!

_Part Eight: College Boys_

The university's main library is strange and gorgeous.

The outside of the building is old, or at least appears old, an imposing brick façade, well-kept, managing to look intimidating and smart and rich all at once. The interior isn't any better, though it trades an old sense of grace and style for a new sense of space and intelligence.

Erin stares at the ceiling, at the floor, at the strange sculptures standing at either end of the information desk. She breathes in deeply, relishing the smell of books. Old, calm, enveloping, a scent like no other, and she finds herself drifting toward a shelf without really meaning to.

Pulling up short, she retreats back to Mark's side. She mustn't become separated from him. She mustn't let the pull of the books distract her.

They're just books, anyway. Just bits of paper strung together, just little scratches of ink, useless, not edible, not worth anything ninety-nine times out a hundred. They were dangerous, even, liable to get you beaten, mocked, tormented, while offering you nothing. Offering only the rose-red glow of a life that could never belong to her, the opinions of people who would never really understand or care about a girl like her, and she long ago taught herself not to want them.

She doesn't want them.

She doesn't care about them.

Her eyes continue to scan the library, taking in the shelf that displays the magazines, the shelf that displays new fiction, the shelf with the new non-fiction, the signs to the stairs, the tables arranged at discrete intervals and the shelves that seem to her to have no rhyme or reason to their placement. There are other people present, most sitting with laptops at small wooden tables. She sees only one out of perhaps the two-dozen people visible who is actively looking at the books.

"Why ain'—aren't they looking at the books?" Her hand rests lightly on Mark's elbow, keeping her connection to him.

"Hm?" Mark scans the library, shrugging briefly once he's done. "They don't need to. Most of our professors prefer articles to books as references, and they're easier to get on-line. Cheaper, too, rather than having to print them out."

"Oh." A little sliver of disappointment stabs through her heart as she looks at the shelves and shelves of books again. "I suppose… that makes sense. Then why have so many books?"

"Because we can?" Mark ruffles his hair and gives a nervous, barking laugh. "I don't know, Erin. They're useful sometimes. Every once in a while some professor gets a bright idea about sending us back to primary sources, and freshmen can get away with using books as primary references sometimes. They're just _there_. It's a library. It's supposed to have books."

But what good were the books if they were never read? What good was having so much knowledge, so much power, and then dismissing it out of hand?

Her hand falls away from Mark's arm, because she hates him right then, just a little bit, though she couldn't articulate why. Scowling fiercely, she forces her eyes to stare only at the floor, breathing through her mouth to avoid the scent of the books as she continues to follow him.

Eventually the taste of coffee touches her tongue, though, and she looks up to see that one end of the library is apparently a snack bar and coffee shop. A bored young woman who looks far younger than Erin stands behind the cash register, her elbow resting on the glass display case that holds brownies and cookies and other pastries, her chin resting in her hand.

"'ey hawk _drinks_ inna _library_?" Erin's voice is higher than she intended, her offense showing clearly.

Mark turns to her with a pained smile, one hand raised in a gesture clearly meant to quiet her. "It's my treat, if you want one. Try to keep quiet, though. Most people who come here want a quiet place to study."

Most. Not all, and she looks around again at the people sprawled with their computers at various tables. She hates them all, fiercely, pointlessly, and after a few seconds she returns her morose gaze to the floor. "Coffee, black, and a brownie."

If Mark's paying, she'll take food. Never mind that it's in a library. Never mind that she remembers being scolded, once, a long time ago, by a woman in a dress and with glasses, that one did not bring food and drink into a library. Libraries were for books and those who loved them, and bringing anything into the library that could damage the books was a very bad thing to do.

Trust rich bastards to treat their libraries and books like everything else, as a commodity easily replaced.

Mark orders two coffees and a brownie before steering them towards a table that has four chairs surrounding it. Settling down with a flourish, Erin grabs her drink and blows on it a handful of times before taking a sip. It's all right, not bad, and she reaches over to drag the little brownie plate over to her side of the table. After a few bites she looks up at Mark. "So when's your friend going to be here?"

"Supposedly at any minute." Glancing around, Mark shakes a stray lock of hair away from his eyes. He's handsome when he does it, an easy, unacknowledged handsomeness, and Erin quickly drops her eyes back to the brownie.

She shouldn't start to like this boy, this out-of-town rich-boy bastard who'll be gone in a few years at the latest. He's good for some entertainment, good for a meal now and then, but he's not anything to really get attached to.

"He's not really my friend, per se. Not yet, at least. Like I said, we had a class together, and the man tends to make an impression, but we've never really hung out or anything."

"A situation I shall have to rectify at the earliest convenience." The fluffy brown-haired man from the rally appears behind Mark between one breath and the next. He smiles, clapping a hand on Mark's shoulder, and settles a brown leather satchel on the seat next to Mark. "Sorry if I'm late. Sometimes I take longer than I intend getting motivated in the morning. Let me grab a drink, and I'll be right back."

Just like that he's gone, leaving his pack sitting abandoned in the chair. Erin finds herself eyeing it speculatively. It's well-made, a good piece of work that would easily fetch a hundred if not a few hundred dollars if she were to hawk it, and that's not counting whatever cell phone or laptop or both is undoubtedly inside. And he just left it with them, with a man who said straight-up that they weren't friends.

Then again, it's not like she can really do much here. She doesn't stand out as much as she'd thought she would here, but she still looks just different enough that her running through the library with a leather bag might attract attention. If they hadn't agreed to meet him here, it might be a different matter. Then she could just slip by the table, pick it up without even really looking at it, and keep sauntering away. With any luck the man wouldn't notice it was missing for a few minutes, by which point she could be long gone.

She _did_ ask to meet the man, though, and she doesn't _want_ to steal from him, and she once more turns her face to her brownie, her cheeks uncomfortably warm from frustration and something between embarrassment and shame.

"You don't have to be nervous about him, Erin." Mark's hand brushes across hers, and his smile is guileless and open. "He's a good guy, from what I can tell. Just ask him your questions like he was someone you trust."

"Like he was you?" The words slip out before she can stop them, and her cheeks flush warmer.

"If that helps. I'm nothing special though, Erin." Mark pulls his hand back, scratching at his hair again, something he tends to do when he's uncertain what to say. "I'm just trying to say you put too much distance between yourself and the college students, and it doesn't need to be that way."

For a long moment she stares at him in disbelief. How can he say that? How can he have lived next door to her for a year and still say that? How can he come here, live with these people—with the people who play in her town but don't live there, who control things but don't care, who use girls like her and then leave them as soon as it becomes inconvenient—and not understand the distance between someone like him and someone like her?

"Well, this is decidedly more awkward than when I arrived." The brown-haired activist shifts his bag over and sits down, settling some sort of iced drink and a piece of pie on the table in front of him. "Was it something I said?"

"No." Erin speaks before Mark can say anything more awkward, more terrifying, more amazing than the things he's already said. "Jus'—_just_ having a little discussion. I suppose we should start with introductions, though. I'm Erin. I'm Mark's next-door neighbor. I saw you at one of those meetin'-things you had."

"It's nice to meet someone who attended without coercion." Cori smiles, reaching over to take her hand. He rises from his chair just enough to brush his lips across the back of her hand before sitting down with a grin. "I'm Cori, the funny one that you saw on the stage, and it is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma'am."

Erin blinks in surprise at her hand. He kissed her. He called her ma'am. She can't decide whether she's offended at being considered old enough to be ma'am or flattered at the term or wary of this strange man.

"You should have introduced us earlier if she's got a penchant for politics, Mark. Hell, you should've said that _you_ have a head for politics, and I would have made sure to invite you out sooner."

"I _don't_." Mark speaks firmly. "I mean, I have my own beliefs, the same as anyone, but—"

"If you have beliefs, then you should be able to articulate and defend them." Cori flashes a grin that's almost predatory, piercing Erin with his gaze. "Given his answer, though, I'm guessing it's you who called this meeting, my dear. So, what can I tell you about our endeavor?"

"Why're you alls doin' it?" Erin swallows hard and hastily rephrases the question in her mind. "I mean, what's the motive behind what you're doing?"

"We want to help people." He says it simply, all trace of guile and lightheartedness wiped from his face. "We want to right what we perceive as wrongs. The next few months are going to be very important. The world in general and our country in particular is standing at the precipice. There are those who are willing to turn a blind eye to the injustices currently facing our people and to even invite more in the name of a false sense of security or their own self-interest. We're trying to get people to stand against them now, to use their vote to save themselves, because if we don't…"

A ghost of old pain and fear flashes across the man's face, something Erin recognizes. She's seen it in the faces of friends, in the faces of enemies, in the old and in the young, but never in the innocent. Never in the eyes of a college-boy before, that knowledge of blood and pain and loss and hopelessness.

Cori continues after a pause of a few heartbeats. "If we don't change things soon, we'll keep fighting. We'll always keep fighting, but I'd much rather be in a world where we didn't have to."

Mark laughs, the sounds just slightly off, displaying his nervousness. "God, Cori, you make it sound like Armageddon's coming if people don't vote the way you want them to. Isn't that a bit heavy-handed and disingenuous?"

"It'll feel like Armageddon to some people. For the hungry, the homeless, the abandoned soldiers, the LGBT people who could lose what little protections they've earned…" Cori leans back in his chair, sipping at his coffee for a moment before smiling ruefully. "It won't be the end of the world, no. One election is never the end of the world. As long as we have a vote that counts, there's always next time. But I do believe that this election is terribly important, at all levels of government, and I believe that your date feels the same."

"She's not my date."

"I never said that!"

Erin stares at Mark, trying to keep from flushing again as his words sink in. Of course she's not his date. He wouldn't want her for a date, though he'll take her out for dinner sometimes and buy her coffee and follow her to strange college-boy rallies.

Cori's eyebrows climb as he looks between the two of them, and then his face softens again. "I think I might've misspoke on a few accounts there. Please, ignore my rambling. I didn't sleep well last night, and I don't do well without my beauty sleep. No more sermons, no more long-winded answers. This is just a nice meeting between friends."

"Are you guys working for anyone?" Erin asks the question of her brownie, trying to summon up the curiosity and wariness that had prompted her to ask Mark to arrange this meeting in the first place.

"Just for ourselves, though in a general sense we like to think we're working for the betterment of all mankind. Your mileage may vary on that belief, though." Cori flashes another smile, calm and peaceful.

"You're goin' t' have more meetings?" She meets his gaze clearly as she speaks now, keeping her head up to match his direct stare.

"We are." Inclining his head just slightly, Cori bares his teeth in a grin. "You are, of course, invited, as is everyone you know as well as anyone you happen to run into on the street."

"Is there goin' t'be more food?" Stuffing another bite of brownie into her mouth, she chews and swallows deliberately. "Because that was a good idea. It'll at least get people to show up or stop for a few minutes, though it probably won't make them listen to you."

"We can certainly have food there." Cori nods gravely. "You could even help us plan it, if you wanted. We always welcome new voices with new perspectives in the Independents. Besides, having a beautiful girl like you handing out food is sure to attract a large audience."

"Cori, don't tease her." Mark slides his drink around on the table.

"I'm not." Cori gives Mark an offended glare. "We do always welcome people, at least once. If you ever wanted to show up, I'd welcome you."

"And flirt with me, too, I bet." Rolling his eyes, Mark sighs. "Stop hitting on her and giving her false expectations when we both know it's just a game."

Erin frowns at the man. "I don't unda'stand."

"He's gay." Mark nods at Cori. "He's a big gay rights activist because he's gay. So his hitting on you doesn't mean anything, Erin."

"Oh." Erin stares in confusion between the two men. "All right. 'S not very nice of you to tell me he's a fag, though. 'S not really any of my business."

"Thank you, and I agree." Cori glowers at the other man, his fingers tight around his drink. "Even ignoring the fact that your definition of flirting is very broad—she is a ma'am, she's darling and intriguing, and I do believe she's aesthetically appealing in several ways, though I suppose you could argue not conventionally attractive—"

"She's right 'ere listening to you." Erin feels her cheeks burn once more, and can't decide whether it's from joy at being complimented, embarrassment at being called darling, or anger at being called not conventionally attractive. She knows her teeth aren't the best in the world, but her folks couldn't afford braces even if they'd wanted them. She knows her skin's too dark and dry, her hands too calloused, but that's what happened when you did rough work and worried more about food than lotions.

Eventually she decides she doesn't care one way or the other, and allows her eyes to wander past the two men to the books behind them. None of them have pictures on their covers, but they're beautiful anyway. They look strong, solid, their spines round and straight and sure, not the easily-broken paperback romances that are all she usually sees around.

" —you've no right to tell someone else my sexuality."

Mark stares at Cori. "It was part of your _introduction_ of yourself during our first day of class. I didn't think it was a big secret."

"It's not. But that doesn't mean…" Cori growls out something unintelligible, glaring sullenly at the ice in his drink. "It's common decency, Mark. Different places call for different things. I've the right to announce my sexuality or not as I choose."

"Fine." Mark takes a sullen gulp of his coffee. "I just didn't think you were ashamed of it."

"I'm not!" There's a fury in Cori's face that hadn't been there before, and Erin finds herself instinctively pulling back.

Cori sees and tenses further for a moment before relaxing with a deep sigh. Closing his eyes, he presses a finger to the bridge of his nose for a count of five before drawing in a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm not ashamed. And I'm sorry that I'm being a tool and a fool today. Maybe I should have stayed home if I was going to be bad company, I don't know, but I wanted… ah, it doesn't matter. I'm sorry, Mark. Given my prior behavior, I can see how you came to your conclusions, though they were wrong. And I'm sorry, Erin. Usually I'm much funnier and cleverer and not in the least bit intimidating."

"You're not frightening." Erin snorts, using her finger to pick up the last few crumbs of brownie. She's seen frightening. She's lived frightening, more than once, and an angry college-boy isn't anything compared to her father in a rage or an angry cop at a robbery. "And you are funny, though in a queer way right now rather than in a comedic way. And by queer I meant weird."

"Accepted." Stretching, Cori reaches down to his bag and pulls out a small note-card. "Now, I wanted to pick up some books for myself and Eric and Con. Then I want to show you exactly how entertaining I can be. There are several options, including ice skating, which I am terrible at, miniature golf, which is more fun if we have a drink or two beforehand, and the good old stand-by of a movie. It will be my treat, whatever you would like to do. First, though, Mark and I are going to run to the bathroom."

"But I don't—"

Cori doesn't give Mark a chance to finish, grabbing his arm and hauling him to his feet and down one of the aisles of books.

Gripping her drink in both hands, Erin just shakes her head and turns back to her silent perusal of the books, cherishing the mixture of their scent with the scent of her coffee.

XXX

Cori doesn't say anything until they're far enough away from the table that Erin won't hear. "Check her out a book."

"What?" Mark scowls at the strange man. "I have no idea what you're going on about."

"Check her out a book." Cori speaks slowly, as though Mark were being a dense child. "It's clear she wants one. I'd say buy her one, but I don't know if she'd accept it and I don't know what kind of national disaster you'd turn my suggesting you give her a gift into, so check her out a book."

"Cori, I don't…" Mark looks back toward the table, now out of sight behind a mountain of cool brown and blue and dark red book covers. "How do you know she wants one?"

"She's smart. Listen to the way she talks. Listen to the way she tries to correct herself sometimes, to talk like us. She wants you to know that she's smart. She watches the books, too, when she's not too busy being distracted by us." Cori shrugs. "If she really doesn't want one, she won't take one. But I think she wants one, and I think it would be a nice thing for you to do, as her friend."

"What do I get her?" Raising his eyebrows, Mark gestures around. "There are a rather large number of objects that could be called books here. Many are astoundingly boring. Some are terrible. Some are incomprehensible to anyone, even those working in the field. I have no idea what she likes."

"You could always do the fantastically novel thing of asking her." Cori shrugs, turning away. "I just wanted to tell you what I noticed." A string incomprehensible syllables follows, though it's clear from Cori's tone that he expects Mark to respond.

"Wait, what? What language was that?" Placing his hands on his hips, Mark scowls at the other man. "I appreciate being able to understand when people are insulting me."

"I'm not insulting you." Cori turns back around, clearly perplexed. "I just said you're not always the most observant person. I noticed that during class, and I figured it's likely true outside of class, as well. It's not meant as an insult. Please don't take it as one."

Mark hesitates a moment before grudgingly admitting to himself that Cori's probably, empirically, right about their different levels of observation. The world just tends to go by too quickly to really take stock of all of it, and people had a tendency to be terribly, horribly confusing and complicated. That doesn't mean he's letting Cori off the hook, though. "You can always try saying it in English next time."

"I did." Cori hesitates. "Didn't I?"

"Maybe. I don't know." Shaking his head, Mark turns back towards Erin. "I'll ask her, anyway. If she wants a book, I'll check one out for her. If she doesn't I'll tell you I told you so. We'll meet up at the front entrance. All right?"

"Sounds good." Cori's voice is cheerful, his wave jaunty as he heads off into the stacks. He's every inch the happy, energetic activist that Mark had come to expect from class.

Rubbing at his neck, Mark heads back towards Erin and, hopefully, sanity.

XXX

"No no no no _no_." Erin shakes her head, keeping her hands clenched tight to the wall running along the edge of the ice rink. If she doesn't move, then she won't fall down.

"Come on, Erin." Mark takes her left hand with his right one, giving it a gentle tug that succeeds in pulling him towards her rather than her towards him due to her tight grip on the wall—a grip which is most emphatically not going to loosen in the near future.

"I'm goin' t' fall. I _know_ I'm goin' t' fall. Why 'n the hell should I let go?"

"Because if you don't let go, you're never going to get to skate. I promise, it'll be fun." Mark gives her hand a gentle tug again, using his other hand on the wall to keep him steady and prevent his being pulled any closer to her.

"Falling down is not fun." Erin shakes her head, speaking slowly because he doesn't seem to understand such a simple fact. "Falling down is painful. Falling down on the ice is painful and _cold_. If I know this is going to happen, why would I do it?"

"It's not going to happen." Mark's starting to sound exasperated, and gives her hand one more tug. "Come on, Erin. Please? You can hold onto me, and I'll make sure we don't fall."

A half-strangled yelp cuts off anything that Erin would have said, and she looks over to see Cori slide across the current of slow-moving skaters and fetch up against the wall a few feet down from them with a loud thump.

Erin turns to Mark, both eyebrows raised.

"Don't pay any attention to him." Mark glowers at the other man, who laughs half-maniacally as he clambers back to his feet.

One skate slides out from under him on the slick ice, sending Cori back down to the ground. For some reason this only seems to entertain the man more, as he laughs even harder for a few seconds before choking down his mirth and standing carefully. A few short, far-too-complicated flicks of his feet brings him over to them. "Don't worry about what happened to me. I was trying to show off, and getting what I deserve for it. I haven't gone skating in almost a decade. Thinking I could do any kind of jump was rather foolish."

"Yeah, well, at least you can manage to stay on your feet." Erin manages to resist the urge to swipe at the ice flakes in Cori's hair. He may be pretty and act kind, but he's a rich college boy and gay on top of that. Getting involved with him wouldn't help anything.

"You can, too. It's just a matter of finding your balance and learning the movement." Cori somehow manages to slide around Mark to Erin's other side, turning in a circle as he does. "Once you learn it, you'll find that your body remembers it pretty easily all on its own. Come on, now. Give Mark one hand and me the other."

Mark already has his right hand over her left one. In a fit of frustration and insanity, she lets go of the wall and clasps her fingers tight to his. "If I fall, I'm taking you with me and using you as a pillow."

"All right." Mark smiles, pulling her carefully away from the wall and into the endless flow of people moving counter-clockwise around the rink. "I accept that challenge."

For one terrifying moment she's certain she's going to fall before they even go a half-dozen feet, and her right hand waves in panicked terror. Then Cori's fingers clasp onto her hand, hold it tight, and she finds herself balancing unsteadily between the two men.

It's still frightening. It's still maddening and frustrating, trying to turn her feet and push while at the same time controlling where she's going and actually making forward progress. She's still half-certain that she's going to be flat on her back on the ice with a terrifying flurry of edged skate blades coming down at her.

It's also wonderful. It's _grand_, having Mark's hand in hers, being cold in the heat of the summer, and when they both pull her forward and she holds her feet right and she closes her eyes and her hair flies back away from her face…

She hasn't dreamed of flying in over fifteen years, but this is what it should feel like.

Cori eventually lets go of her hand, sliding ahead of them and towards the center of the ice rink. He moves gracefully, only faltering every once in a while when he's just skating. Once he's in the center of the circle, though, he turns around so he's going _backward_, and then he does something complicated with his feet, and then he's really flying through the air—

She starts clapping before he falls, and doesn't manage to stop quickly enough. He's grinning as he slides across the ice and into the wall, though, laughing that foolish, childish, excited laugh he has, and after a moment she can't help but grin and laugh too.

Mark pulls her over to Cori's side, but she chooses to reach down and offer him a hand up, a hand that he takes without a second's hesitation, still grinning ear to ear.

XXX

Erin gathers up the skates, tying the laces together with nimble fingers. "These jus' go back t' the desk?"

"Uh huh." Cori leans his head back against the locker behind him, smiling up at the woman. "I can help. Just let me—"

"You paid for it like a crazy man." Erin clutches the skates closer to her, glowering briefly. "I can take the skates back while y' see t' that head of yours. Make sure he doesn' fall once he gets up, Mark."

"I'm really fine." The words end up being said to Erin's retreating back, as she heads off with the skates in the time it takes him to blink. Turning his pout to Mark, Cori repeats himself. "I'm fine. I just rattled myself for a minute."

"I'm sure you did." Mark settles down next to him on the ground. "I heard your head hit the ice that last time. I was afraid there was going to be Cori blood all over the rink by the time we got over to you."

"Sorry to disappoint." Smiling, Cori gingerly feels around the periphery of the bruise on his skull. He's going to be regretting that fall for a few days, probably.

"I'm not disappointed. I'm glad. I don't want to see you get hurt." Mark hesitates barely a fraction of a second before reaching over and patting Cori's knee awkwardly. "I enjoyed this afternoon, and I think that Erin did, too."

"It was fun." Allowing his eyes to drift closed again, Cori smiles, relaxing for what feels like the first time all day. "I'm glad you guys could come with me."

"Did something happen to you?" Mark blurts out the question in a rush.

Cracking his eyes open, Cori shakes his head and offers Mark a sardonic smile. "Other than giving myself a splitting headache?"

"No, earlier, before." Spinning one hand in a circle, Mark manages to get his words in the proper order. "Did something happen before you met up with Erin and I? Because you seemed really tense earlier. The way you almost bit my head off when I told Erin you were gay—"

"It was rather rude of you, especially since you're not dating her." A sliver of cold tries to crawl back into his gut at the mention of the incident in the library, but Cori refuses to let it. He's enjoyed himself these last few hours, has found that he legitimately enjoys Mark's company and that Erin's entertaining as well, and he's not willing to let senseless fears get in the way of that. "But it doesn't really matter."

"It does, though, if someone was giving you a hard time. Because they shouldn't." Mark speaks firmly, with authority. "You're a good guy, Cori. You're smart and I can tell from the way you talk in class and what you're trying to do with your rallies that you're kind. Maybe sometimes misguided, but kind, and if you ever need help…"

"There are people I could turn to if I needed to." Cori straightens and opens his eyes completely, expression serious. "But thank you. It means… a lot to me right now. Maybe it shouldn't. Maybe it's stupid. It was just a dream, after all. But…"

Mark is looking at him worriedly, and Cori sighs, leaning his head back against the lockers again. "Thank you, Mark. Thank you for coming with me, and thank you for being a slightly oblivious but generally nice guy."

"There you go with that 'oblivious' thing again." Mark frowns, looking slightly petulant. "Have I missed something important and obvious?"

(_That depends on your definition of important and which life we're talking about._)

Rubbing at his head, Cori suppresses a smile. Marius is always such fun, especially where his financial or love life is concerned.

_Mark_, not Marius, and Cori frowns slightly. Where had the other name come from?

And since when does he know anything about Mark's financial situation and love life? He has a few guesses, sure, but he doesn't actually _know_—

"Are you sure you don't need to go to a hospital or something to have your head checked out?" Mark's expression is once again concerned.

"I'm fine, I promise." Standing in one fluid motion doesn't make him dizzy, which is all the confirmation that he's not concussed that Cori really needs. "I need to be heading out soon, anyway. I'm supposed to meet some of my friends to discuss our plans."

"When you say it that way, it sounds vaguely threatening." Mark's smile is quick, almost shy, and Cori forces himself not to find it cute. "Like you guys are trying to take over the world or something."

"We are, though hopefully we're taking it over in the name of good and in theory we're taking it over by giving it to everyone." Taking his bag out of the locker, Cori slings the strap over his shoulder. "We're going to be benevolent not-dictators."

That earns a brief, bemused laugh from Mark.

"We should do this again sometime." Holding out a hand for Mark to shake, Cori grins. "Assuming I haven't scared you off."

"Like I said, I enjoyed it. Thank you." Mark returns the handshake with a firm, cool grasp. "Next time I'm paying, though."

"We'll see." Cori waves at Erin, wandering her way back toward them through the crowds of free skaters who were recently shooed off the ice so it could be cleaned.

"Friends alternate paying." Mark's mouth sets in a stubborn line.

"So we're friends now?" Raising his eyebrows, Cori turns fully back to Mark. It's silly, really, how much it warms his heart to hear Mark refer to him as a friend. He has plenty of friends, and he's been getting closer and closer to all of Eric's Independents over the last few months. One apolitical classmate more or less shouldn't make that big a difference in his life, even if it is always better to have someone's affection rather than disdain.

It feels… _right_, though, him and Mark having an easy camaraderie between them, and Cori's grinning before he can help it.

(_Marius was always a good man and a good friend._)

"Whoa there."

Mark's hands on his shoulders help Cori keep the room in focus as his head pounds again, blood rushing hot across his cheeks and beating too loudly in his ears. For one panicked second he is too acutely aware of his surroundings, of how cold and sharp and alien the air smells, of how loud and oppressive the murmurs of so many people mixing with the sharp blast of pop and dance music is, of how strangely the light reflecting off all the glass and plastic used to create the building looks.

Then the moment passes, and he can breathe normally again, blinking Mark back into focus.

"Please tell me you're not going to drive." Concern pulls the edge of Mark's eyebrows close together.

"I think maybe I'll have Con pick me up." Nodding to himself, Cori offers Erin a bright grin. "Everything go all right, Erin?"

Erin gives him an odd look, moving to stand close to Mark's side as Mark releases his hold on Cori's shoulders. "Went fine."

"Good." Cori nods, taking a step back from the pair. Erin seems to relax slightly when he does. "Will we be seeing you two around any of our meetings, then?"

"I…" Erin hesitates, eyes dropping to the ground before rising determinedly to meet his. "You'd really want me there?"

"I would be thrilled to have both of you there." Cori moves his gaze between Erin and Mark, hoping they can read the truth in his eyes. "We're always happy to have more people, and I think you'd both contribute well to the discussion."

"May—"

"When's the next meeting?" Erin's words cut over Mark's hesitancy like a sharp blade. "And where?"

"Our next general meeting is Wednesday. I can send Mark the location once we've settled on it, though I can almost guarantee it'll be somewhere with pizza."

"We'll come." Turning her too-wide, too-bright eyes on Mark with a simmering excitement, Erin reaches tentatively over and squeezes his hand. "Right, Mark?"

"Sure." Mark smiles between the two of them, looking slightly bemused again. "You might not like everything I have to say, though."

"We're not looking for agreement. Creative and competent disagreement and discussion are how better ideas are born." Adjusting the bag on his shoulder, Cori glances at the clock. "But I should really be going. I'll see you guys in a few days then, yeah? And you two should think of something fun to do, because we need to have an afternoon like this again sometime soon."

They both agree, and Cori feels just a little bit lighter in his heart and on his feet than he did when they arrived at the ice rink, even if his thoughts still feel vaguely strange and disoriented.

XXX

Erin walks out of the ice rink with Mark, the warm air actually welcome after the frigidness of the arena. Cori's gone, having pranced off to meet some of his other friends, and she's surprised to find that she misses his company.

"Did you enjoy yourself?" Mark asks the question anxiously, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. "Was it fun?"

For a minute she thinks about teasing him, lying to him, but then she remembers his hand on hers as they drifted around the rink and can't help but smile. "I did. It was. Silly, and strange, but fun."

"Yeah, well…" Mark smiles. "Most things that people do for fun are silly and strange, you know."

"Maybe." She keeps her expression calm and non-committal. The definition of fun clearly depended on who one was with. That was something she'd learned early on in life, though. "Thanks for invitin' me, though, and thank Cori again when you see him."

"No problem, though it sounds like we'll probably be seeing him at about the same time unless I can come up with a legitimate excuse not to go. Which might take more work than it's worth, since eating pizza and poking holes in other people's politics sounds like something I'm quite capable of." Mark shifts his backpack around on his shoulder so that he can reach inside. "Here's the books you wanted, too, before I forget to give them to you."

"I still think 'e's teasin' me. 'ey wouldn' wan' my opinion." Erin mutters to herself, reaching out to take the handful of books from Mark. Two she recognizes as books on politics that he had helped her pick out; the third, an old book bound in red with the edges fraying, she doesn't recognize. "What's this?"

"It's something I picked up for you when you went to the bathroom." Mark stares at the ground. "If you don't want it, that's fine. It's fiction, unlike the others you chose, but it's something I read when I was younger that I thought you might find interesting. It's based off of real events and real people, so I guess it's historical fiction. It's the book that almost made me political, much to my parent's dismay."

"The title's kind o' depressing." Erin's fingers run over the book, reverent, gentle. "Who writes a book and calls it _The Wretched_?"

"It is kind of a depressing book." Mark laughs, toying with his hair again. "Or, rather, a lot of people die in it. Overall, it's pretty uplifting, I think. It's really famous—there's a musical based on it, which is how I first found out about it. Again, if you don't want to read it or you try and end up not liking it, that's fine."

"Thank you, Mark." Hugging the stack of books close to her chest, she looks up at him with bright eyes. "I… just… thank you."

Grinning, an expression that he doesn't wear nearly often enough, Mark pats her shoulder. "No problem. After all, what are friends and next-door neighbors for?"


	9. Part Nine: The Coming Storm

**Author's Note:** Thanks to those of you who have been reviewing! To answer a few questions without spoiling too much, Cosette should be coming in shortly (shortly probably being the third chapter after this). As for how much this life is going to mirror their lives in 1832… well, you'll see! It's definitely going to give some of them pause when they discover what happened in the past. Thanks for any and all reviews! Con crit is always appreciated.

_Part Nine: The Coming Storm_

She's bleeding.

Her hand aches, throbs with each beat of her heart, but that's nothing compared to the pain in her chest and stomach as red slowly seeps through her clothing. Not red in this light, though. Black, as black as her wishes and desires, and it's the color that all red things eventually turn.

"Marius…" She whimpers his name, low, so that no one else will hear it.

He will come to her.

He will come to her eventually, and he will understand what she's done, and he will forgive her.

He will forgive her, and he will hold her, and he will die for her, she who sent him to die with his friends, and they will be together then.

They will be together in death, and he will understand what she's done, and perhaps, then, he will even be able to love her.

_No_.

The word is a whisper, melodic, almost, sliding across the night. It comes from the shadows sitting across from her, and as she watches they seem to form a silhouette, a black shadow-man with rose-red eyes that stare at her far too possessively.

_No, Eponine._ The creature reaches one black hand towards her, slides shadow-talons that are cold as steel across her cheek, and for one frightened moment she can't even breathe. _He will never love you. His heart belongs to another, and you know it well._

"She's leaving." The words are ragged, her voice more torn and huskier by far than this demon's. It isn't fair. It isn't right. She's dying for Marius, to be with Marius, to save his heart from breaking. "I'm right here, right by him."

_She will return._ The demon continues to stroke her cheek, practically purring. _She will save him, through her affections raise him from the darkness, heal his pains, and he will love her all the more dearly for her salving of his grief and loss._

"No." Eponine whimpers, turning her face away. "He'll die here. They're all going to die."

It is incomprehensible to her, the idea that any of them will survive this. Do they really think that the people will join them? Do they really think that they stand a ghost of a chance against the powers of the regime? No, there is nothing but death to be found in revolution, death to be found in hope.

_You are so beautifully broken, little one. So scarred and twisted by your family, your neighbors, your world._ The fingers continue to stroke along her cheek, sharp, stinging, and warm liquid begins to slide drip by drop down her face.

It takes her a moment to realize that some of the liquid is tears. Choking them back, she whispers her mantra once more, though it feels hollow. "He will come."

_You will die._ The words are the whisper of a fetid wind across her face, the smell of rot, decay, sickness. _He will live and love, but you will die. You, so much like me, who could perhaps have been like me given another few centuries…_

Eponine gasps as the claws move from her face to her chest, ten kitten-fine points of pain flaring up, spreading out, a scarlet fire of agony.

Glowing red eyes hold hers, keep her from looking away, from looking for Marius. She should scream. She should fight. She should do something, anything, to try to save herself from this monster.

But all she can seem to make her aching, weak, dying body do is cry.

_I could rip it from you now._ The monster's claws dig just a bit deeper. _I could begin the feast with your pathetic heart, so weary and unguarded._

The claws withdraw, one at a time, and she shudders out a breath of relief.

_But you're not what I want. I will take you, never doubt that, but I marked myself a far better feast that day than what lies within you._ There are teeth, somehow, in the shadows, pointed and sharp and hungry. _I might even have forgotten about you, child, if he hadn't brought you back into the fold. One more thing to lay at his callow, oblivious feet._

"No." She finds the strength to whisper, to crawl, and pulls herself away from the creature in a slow, labored drag. "Any harm you do I lay at your feet, demon. Marius would not intentionally hurt me. Marius…"

She is weak, even aside from the pain, her body too close to death already for her to make good on her escape.

_As you wish._ The demon crosses the distance she had created between them in less than a second, crouching once again above her. It settles on its heels, its hands resting on its knees and its head on its hands, a mockery of a child's interest exuding from it as it watches her die. _I will play with you, Eponine, if that is what you desire. I will use_ _everything I am given to make the world burn._

She closes her eyes, keeping herself from having to see the monster, gritting her teeth to keep from responding to it. Her breath is ragged in her chest, and she can taste blood in her mouth.

_But not yet. Not _you_ yet._ The demon laughs, the sound echoing eerily in the darkness behind her eyelids. _I've something far sweeter, something I've worked far harder for to use as the spark for the conflagration._

Curling in on herself as much as she is able, Eponine grits her teeth and whispers a single name under her breath, over and over, hoping to drown out the sound of the demon's mirth in the dry ashes of a shattered hope.

XXX

Erin wakes crying, her hands hugging her body fiercely as though holding herself together. For one long moment she isn't sure where she is or what she's doing, the only coherent thought she has that she needs to hide.

Then she recognizes the smell of nicotine smoke, soaked into the apartment, into her bed, into her clothes. She sees the dingy sheets wrapped around her legs, and she knows that she's home.

"Oh. Ow." Sitting up slowly, she runs a hand through her sweat-drenched, tangled hair. Blinking blearily at the clock, she realizes that it's just slightly after dawn. "Damn. That's, what, three hours' sleep? Mark, I'm blamin' you fo' all these weird dreams."

She can feel the corners of her mouth twitch up as she says his name, her eyes catching on the red-bound book still sitting on the cluttered floor beside her bed. It's been almost four weeks since he gave it to her, and she's barely halfway through it, but she's certain that all the weirdness in her dreams lately stems from it. There's just too much _stuff_ in the book, too many characters and too much history and too much discussion of all sorts of things like redemption and childhood and kindness and politics. It would drive anyone crazy, reading something like that.

Dreams are only dreams, though. They can't actually hurt you, only steal a bit of sleep.

Turning over, wiping her eyes, Erin curls back up to go to sleep. Between last night playing look-out for her father's gang and tonight with Mark and Cori and the others, she's going to need all the rest she can manage.

XXX

Con watches Eric, and though he tries to focus on what the man's saying it's difficult.

Eric looks awful. Dark bruising surrounds his eyes. His cheekbones stand out too sharply from his skin, Eric's leanness suddenly looking more like starvation than the healthy, agile fighter's body that Con's used to seeing. His eyes still blaze, bright blue, but it's almost a feverish glitter rather than the banked, steady fire that they've been building their plans around.

It's not the first time Eric's seemed exhausted to the point of illness. It happened once or twice during the first two months of this summer campaign, but each time Con worked up the courage to approach the man about it he seemed to recover.

Maybe it's normal for Eric. Maybe he has a tendency to work himself too rigorously, to drive himself into the ground, but is smart enough to stop short of actually making himself ill. Maybe Con's just seeing the man's natural drive and motivation running headlong into his mortality, and maybe it's the way Eric works.

Maybe, but it doesn't feel right.

It's strange. He's known Eric for four months, nearly five, but he feels like he's known him far longer. He's comfortable in Eric's presence in a way that he's not usually comfortable with others, at least not at first. He talks with Eric like he does Cori and Finny, people he's known and trusted for years… sometimes even more openly and frankly than he does with them.

And it feels _wrong_, seeing Eric like this, seeing him shiver every few minutes despite the warmth of summer, seeing him physically worn and battered. Eric wouldn't let himself get to this point, not normally. Eric cares too much about his work to risk being unable to do it, to relegate his health to a position of least importance. Con's quite certain of that, somehow.

So why _is_ he like this? Why is—

"Con?" Eric's staring at him, head tilted slightly. "Your opinion?"

An awkward silence stretches as Con realizes that he's completely lost the thread of the conversation. Are they still talking about freshmen orientation? Or have they moved on to the voter registration part of the agenda?

"'is opinion is 'at he's worried about you." Erin speaks into the silence, shrugging when Eric turns a puzzled stare on her. "He's been givin' you the doctor-look all evenin', same as Jona, so I'm guessin' that's what it is."

Eric's gaze turns from Con to Jona, somewhere between annoyed and defensive. "I'm fine. So if we could continue with the meeting, I would appreciate it."

"Sorry, Eric." Jona's tone is half-sheepish, half-worried. "It's just… you do kind of look like death just barely warmed over. Are you sure you aren't sick?"

"You look even worse than you did last month." Barry takes a drink, his eyes scanning up and down Eric. "I can take you out fighting again it it's going to help, or even start a bar fight here, but at this point I think seeing a doctor might be the more useful path to consider."

"I am not sick." Eric's cheeks flush, just slightly. "I am _fine_. I just… didn't sleep well over the last few nights. Tomorrow's Saturday. I'll catch up on my sleep, and then you can all stop being distracted by something that's not important."

"Your health is important, Eric." Cori nudges Eric's arm gently, smiling as he does. "You're our fearless leader. You're the one who got this entire endeavor running. More importantly, you're our friend. We worry about you. If you need us to do more or help you with something else, we will, just—"

"No." Eric's jaw sets stubbornly, an expression that surprises Con. He's used to Eric being reasonable, hearing arguments, integrating what they say and helping them come up with the best path forward. To have him cut Cori off like that, to have him refusing to listen to them… it's odd.

Eric looks down at his plate where a half-eaten slice of pizza sits. "No. I'm fine. We're doing well. Everyone's been doing their part, and that's all I ask. I'll keep doing mine. I'll get us through this. So can we _please_ just continue the meeting?"

Silence falls across the group again, and Con shares a glance with Jona, with Cori, with Barry, takes in Grant's half-terrified half-stunned expression, Erin's confusion, Mark's uncertain frown. Coming to a quick decision, Con nods and smiles. "All right. If someone wouldn't mind helping me figure out what I'm supposed to be having an opinion on, we can keep going."

The tension in the room dissipates slightly as Eric relaxes back into the give and take of information and ideas. Con makes sure to keep part of his attention, at least, focused on the conversation, on making useful contributions.

The other part of his mind skitters over and over Eric's words, analyzing and re-analyzing and never reaching a reasonable conclusion. Even though Eric had spoken in his usual tone, logical and determined, there had been a speed to some of his words, a wild energy under others, that Con doesn't like. Why was he so adamant about no one taking on extra work? Why did he sound so pained and… _guilty_ when he said he'd keep doing his part?

Just what, exactly, is happening in that blond head of his?

Forcing Eric into a corner isn't the way to get any answers from him, though. Eric cornered is Eric fighting, and that's the last thing that Con wants to cause at the moment. Eric doesn't need to feel like he has to fight them when he's clearly already fighting _something_, even if Con doesn't have any idea what that something is.

Maybe there are ways to get a better idea about what's going on without making Eric feel like he's being trapped, though.

XXX

"You've got to have some idea what's going on."

Grant stares down at Conlan, wondering at the improbability that the shorter man with glasses is the one who's clearly doing the intimidating here. "I don't. I swear, if I knew anything that could help, I'd tell you."

Cori is currently distracting Eric. Grant has no idea how Cori managed to get Eric to agree to drink with him and Barry, especially since Grant has no luck getting Eric to ever imbibe something alcoholic, but it's fascinating to watch Eric's dubious face as he lifts the glass and tries it.

"Grant." Con calls his attention back to the matter at hand. "He said he hasn't been sleeping well."

"That much's true." Grant shrugs. "He's been having nightmares, I think. He's always been up earlier than me, but I hear him moving around at one, two, three in the morning some days, and I don't think he often gets back to sleep after. Sometimes he wakes me by screaming; sometimes he just gets up and paces. I've asked him what the dreams are about, but he clearly doesn't want to talk about it. He sleeps better during the day, and he's taken to having some bizarre weekend sleep schedules, but during the week, between work and the Independents, he doesn't get much chance to catch up on lost sleep."

"Did something happen?" Frowning, Con stares over at Eric for a long minute. "Did he get a call from his family? Did someone say something to him that you know about?"

"Not that I know of." Grant shrugs. "I'm not with him all day every day, though. You guys see almost as much of him as I do, some days."

"When did they start?" Con's hands are clenched into fists, though Grant suspects that the anger they represent isn't directed at him. Hopefully not, at least, since he's pretty sure he's done nothing to deserve it. "Do you remember that, at least?"

"I…" Frowning, Grant tries to remember the first time he noticed Eric having nightmares. "I think they started right before we met you, actually. Last semester. But how bad they are has varied. They started out not very frequent, but they got to the point where he was having multiple nightmares a night last month. Then, after Cori gave himself that concussion, they seemed to go away for a while, and then during this last week they've been bad again."

Con continues to stare at Eric, his face a study in helpless frustration. "Has he been doing anything else that you know of? Has he had any other symptoms? Has he…"

Con stops, clenching his jaw tight, and shakes his head.

"No." Taking a swig of his own beer, Grant shakes his head. "He hasn't been coughing or having any other troubles I've noticed. And no, he hasn't been trying to self-medicate with anything. Trust me, as someone with what might be considered to be a dependency issue to some people, I think I would have noticed that."

Turning back to Grant, Con flushes slightly before dropping his eyes. "I'm sorry, Grant. I've been short with you when you don't deserve it. I'm just…"

"Worried about him?" Grant nods. "Me, too. I'd help him if I could, but he has made it clear that he doesn't need my help so far as his nightmares are concerned."

"You don't have any idea what the nightmares are about?" Con's gaze has slid back to Eric, who is currently fending off Cori's attempts to get him another drink.

"No." If he knew what the nightmares were about, maybe he could help more. Maybe he could say something that would let Eric rest easy, be the voice in the darkness that would let him go back to sleep instead of pacing around the room like a caged lion. Maybe he could actually be _useful_ to Eric, like Eric's been useful to him. "Like I said, sometimes he screams, and sometimes he talks, but I never catch…"

And suddenly, just like, Grant has an idea about how he can help.


	10. Part Ten: Hunter and Prey

_Part Ten: Hunter and Prey_

Grant finds the recorder in the last drawer he checks.

He supposes that you always find what you're looking for in the last place you check, but he's fairly certain he checked every drawer he has at least twice before finding the silly thing. That might just have been his own hesitancy about what he's planning talking, though, as he attempts to have everything set before Eric crawls out of the shower.

He didn't need to worry. Eric spends longer than normal in the shower, and when he finally emerges he merely bids Grant a cursory goodnight and crawls into bed without even touching the lights. Grant suspects that he could do everything short of throwing a rave in the room without waking up the blond man.

All he does is murmur a goodnight of his own, turn off the lights, wait a few minutes to ensure that Eric's really asleep, turn on the recorder, and set in on Eric's nightstand.

If he can just figure out _what_ Eric's dreaming about, maybe he can find a way to help the other man out.

XXX

Enjolras fights.

He always fights. It is in his nature, in his soul, and when everything else is denied to him, he will still continue to fight.

_You make this so fun._ The voice is a sibilant hiss at his ear as the barricade falls once more. _You _feel _so much, my little murderer, and that makes this all the sweeter._

He doesn't bother responding to the creature, just as he doesn't wince at the stab of pain that goes through him at the word _murderer_. Let Eric think what he will, cringe where he will. Enjolras' beyond giving the monster that satisfaction.

He's beyond having the strength to, truly, but he won't consider that as he throws aside his empty pistol and backs against the wall. Grantaire will come now, and then the firing squad, and for the moment, at least, this nightmare will be over.

_You _want _this._ The voice continues to hiss in his ear, the shadows sliding around him. It doesn't sound pleased now, though. It sounds frustrated, angry. _You want this to play out. You want to die._

No. He knows that he can't die. He knows that it never ends. But once they shoot him, once he falls, there's a good chance he will at least fade back for a while. Eric will wake, and _live_, and even if it's an exhausted existence, it's a better one than Enjolras can offer either of them right now.

_No. No, oh, no, my little murderer, my callous dreamer, you don't get out of it that easily. _The shadows roil, angry, annoyed. _I should have noticed sooner. How many ways will you find to fight me, to fight your just punishment?_

There is nothing just about this. If it is punishment, then he doesn't know the crime one could possibly commit to be worthy of such torture.

_You killed them all._

The room fades around him, replaced once more by the barricade, by the bodies of his friends.

_You led them, Enjolras. You were their fearless leader._

The barricade fades in turn, replaced by the Musain, by the familiar tables and familiar voices and familiar faces. He continues to lean against the wall, closing his eyes, not wanting to see or hear, too tired to speak up again in his own defense even in his own mind. The monster will never listen to anything he has to say, anyway.

"Enjolras?" The hand is gentle on his shoulder, kind and warm and firm.

He still flinches away, keeping his eyes shut tight. He will not let it do this. He will not let it use their faces and voices and companionship to hurt him.

"Enjolras, what's wrong?" There's more than one hand now, more than one voice, and the monster does this too well. How does it know them so well? How does it replicate the feel of Combeferre's hand, the concern in Courfeyrac's voice, the worry giving way to the ring of authority in Joly's voice?

"Enjolras, look at me." Joly's hands are cool against Enjolras' face as the would-be doctor shoos the others away. "What's wrong? Tell us what's wrong, Enjolras, so that we can help you."

He opens his eyes. He can't help himself. There's just too much of his friends in these ghosts, too much of their personality, their _liveliness_, and if there's a chance that this isn't a trick, a chance that he's frightening his friends…

It looks like Joly, holding his face firmly, gazing with a slight frown from one of his eyes to the other. It looks like Courfeyrac, holding tight to Enjolras' left arm as though his grip could keep Enjolras there with them. It looks like Combeferre, standing just to Joly's left, arms crossed in a way that could be fear or could be anger or could be both.

It looks like all of Les Amis, gathered around him, _alive_, and his breath comes out in a shuddering sigh that sounds far too akin to a sob.

"Enjolras…" Courfeyrac somehow manages to tighten his hold, and Enjolras' arm begins to go numb from the clasp. "Are you well?"

"Well enough." A slight smile slips from him as he glances around at his friends, slowly starting to disperse back to their tables. "I'm sorry if I frightened you."

"What happened?" Joly continues to frown at him, but takes a step back, releasing his head. "Your eyes look fine. You're not feverish."

"I…"

What happened, indeed. What does he say? Does he say he saw them all dead? Does he say he thought there was a beast, a creature of shadow and fire and lies that called him murderer and monster and destroyer? Does he say he thought there was another in his mind, a mirror-image of him but… softer?

It all seems like madness, here. It all seems like a nightmare, a bad dream, at worst a terrible portent of things to come.

And yet… he can feel it, still. He can feel the sorrow, the terrible, aching, empty sorrow. If he turns his thoughts just right, reaches inside himself, he can almost, maybe, touch the _other_…

(_Don't. For God's sake, if we have a respite, take it._)

He doesn't understand the words. He understands the meaning, though, the exhaustion and pain behind Eric's desire for peace, and allows that to wash over him and clear away his doubts.

The world… _twists_, colors shifting shades until they're not quite right, the axis of the universe seeming to tilt about fifteen degrees before everything snaps back into place.

He is in the Musain, and he is with his friends, and for a moment, at least, everything is all right.

"You're really all right?" Combeferre asks the question, standing quietly at his right hand. The concern in his eyes is so _real_, so bright and perfect and Combeferre that Enjolras wants to embrace the man, though he doesn't know why.

Suppressing the strange impulse, he instead smiles at his friend. "I'm fine, Combeferre. I don't know what happened—a bit of a waking nightmare, maybe, but everything's fine now."

"Good." Courfeyrac throws an arm around his shoulders, the other man grinning. "Because we've still got work to do. If you're not up to speaking, of course, Combeferre or I could take your place, but I think you've got the cadence down best."

"I can talk." He remembers, now, what they were going to do. They were going to speak to a crowd of workers, try to impress upon them the importance of the revolution. It's something they've been planning for over a week.

He doesn't remember how they reach the meeting spot. It doesn't really matter. All that matters is that there's a crowd, and Courfeyrac is hauling him up onto a table and everyone is urging him to speak.

He talks like he always does, with passion and determination, trying to read and react to the crowd. He's distracted, though, by the way the shadows seem to shift and flow with no urging from the sun, the way the faces of the crowd seem too distant and indistinct, and he knows what's going to happen.

He knows, even before the tide of the crowd turns against them. He knows before the first punch is thrown, before Bahorel returns the blow with equal verve. He knows before Feuilly is struck by a bottle and stunned by the word _traitor_. He knows before hands reach for him.

He knows, and there is nothing he can do for it except to fight. He tries words, first, because they came here to talk, but there are too many weapons in the crowd now. Why do these men have swords, guns, more creative implements usually used for work but that are just as capable of killing?

Why do they have no faces?

They hold him down, helpless, as they kill his friends one by one. He closes his eyes, to drown out the sights, but there is nothing he can do about the sounds, the smells, the feel of blood raining down on him.

There is nothing he can do.

Now, here, there is nothing, just as there was nothing he could do to save them on the barricades.

_You will always lead them to death._ The voice is a whisper, almost gentle compared to the rough words and rougher hands of the faceless crowd. _You trust in humanity, and that trust is misplaced, and because of it your friends die._

No. This isn't real. This didn't happen. It's terrible, horrible, a nightmare that he doesn't want to face, but at least it isn't real. At least he can say that it didn't happen.

_But the barricades did._ The beast is all too happy to remind him of that, and Enjolras suddenly feels the wind on his face, the stench of gunpowder sharp in his nose, and knows without giving it the satisfaction of opening his eyes that they are back. _And what have you done since then, Enjolras? In the time when I couldn't find you, when that fire was banked so high in your soul, where did you go? How many other times and in how many other places did you lead them to their deaths?_

It _hurts_. It hurts in ways he didn't know were possible, and he screams as he falls forward, his head buried in his hands.

This was the first time. This was their joining, their founding, the creation of Les Amis, but the feel of their blood upon his skin is so familiar because he's felt it before. He's watched them die, over and over, and his mind is suddenly filled with a dozen voices, a dozen languages, his soul quartered and split and torn until only pain remains.

Pain, and at least one voice that he can put a name to.

(_No! No, damn you, this isn't happening. I'm not letting this happen._)

He never wants to let it happen. He always tries to choose the right time, the right place, to give them all a fighting chance at survival, but still they always die. Still he watches them die, over and over, ever the stoic leader so that he doesn't disgrace their sacrifice, and it—

(_They're not dead! They're fine! Now shut up, all of you! I'm not letting this happen!_)

It's good, to hear the fire and certainty in Eric's voice. It's something he's missed in this mirror-image, something he's wanted to see, and he smiles hazily even as the demon reaches for him. It's comforting, somehow, to know that Eric's strong enough to quiet the other voices, to stop the roaring fire and pain from splitting them into almost a dozen pieces. They wouldn't survive that, he fears, but he doesn't know if he would have had the strength to drown and soothe the other voices.

He doesn't have the strength left to fight, to move, even to protest as fingers touch his arm.

_I was going to wait until you found the last one_. The demon's voice is meditative, musing. _I was going to ensure the whole feast was prepared, but I don't think I'll get a better chance than this._

(_No! Stop it, don't touch him, let me go, wake _up_!_)

He would wake if he could. He would die, even, if that was permitted. He would do anything to escape this world, and give them both a bit of peace.

He _did_ do anything, accepting the truth of the dream despite his own reservations to quiet Eric's soft voice inside him, and surely—

(_This isn't my fault! This isn't my fault, and this isn't real, and I am waking up right _now.)

The hand crawls its way up to his chest, opens his shirt, and claws press down into his skin, points of agony that would have been torture before his soul tried to shatter, but it never gets any further than that.

Enjolras doesn't know how, but Eric drags them out of the dream, and he's never been more grateful to fade into nothingness.

XXX

"Let me _go _let me _go _let me—"

"Eric!" Grant releases his gentle hold on the blond man, taking a step back from Eric's bed as the man pulls his fist back. "Come on, Eric, it's me. It's all right. You're awake. You're home. Everything's fine."

Eric blinks for a moment, his blue eyes still fever-bright, and then he _laughs_. It's a terrible sound, broken and frightened and hurt while still maintaining a façade of cheerfulness. "I'm awake. I'm all right."

"Yeah." Grant balls his hands helplessly into fists in his lap. "You're awake, and you're all right. Jesus, Eric, what's happening—"

Eric shakes his head, blond hair waving in sweat-streaked locks around his face. He doesn't say anything. All the blankets have been kicked to the end of the bed, and he crawls down to them before clambering off the bed with barely a trace of his usual grace. "I'm going out."

"Eric, it's four in the morning." This isn't right. Grant's not supposed to be the voice of reason here. He doesn't know _how_ to be the voice of reason, and he suddenly wishes that Con or Cori were here. "It's pitch black outside. You look… Eric, please, just take a minute to relax and wake up fully before you do anything."

"I need to get out of here, Grant." Eric's shaking as he strips out of his sweat-drenched T-shirt and grabs a polo from his closet. "I can't… I can't be in this room right now. I can't be in _any _room. I don't really want to be outside, either, but it's better than being trapped in here in the dark."

"It's not dark. I turned on the light. We can turn on more lights. Just—"

"I'm going out." Eric slips into a pair of black slacks and turns back to face Grant. He's stopped shaking, at least, and his voice has a hint of the certainty that it usually carries. "That's all there is to it."

"Then I'm coming with you." Grant stands, too, reaching toward Eric without actually touching him. "If you'll let me."

Eric pales, taking a step back as though Grant had punched him. After a second he shakes his head, letting out a ragged breath. "Why?"

Because he would follow Eric to the ends of the earth, if Eric just asked. Because he'd gladly follow Eric into hell, or take Eric's place in whatever nightmares he's suffering, if only it was permitted.

Because he's worried about Eric, and he loves the man deeply, though he'd never say it out loud. "Because I'd like to. Please, Eric."

Eric hesitates for several long seconds before slowly inclining his head. "If it's what you want. I don't own the outdoors. I can't keep you from going for a walk."

"But you could keep me from going with you, and that's kind of what I want." Standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, Grant shrugs. "If you don't want me to come with you, I won't, but I'd like to."

"I've never told anyone they couldn't follow me." There's a curious twist to the way Eric says the words, as though he's reproaching himself for something. "I'm not going to start now. If you want to come for a walk, fine. But let's _go_. I don't want to be here anymore."

Grant dresses hurriedly, throwing on jeans and sniffing at his shirt to make sure it doesn't smell too bad before following Eric out the door and into the night.

He's more anxious than ever to listen to the tape and see if he can figure out what Eric's dreaming about, but that can wait until he's certain that Eric's not going to get himself mugged in the middle of the night… or, just as likely, break a would-be mugger's head open.

He's pretty certain Eric's not exactly in a good frame of mind to be talking to the police right now.

XXX

The terrible feeling of being trapped—of being _hunted_—fades slowly once they're out of the building, and Eric focuses on just breathing, just walking, just _existing_. He knows Grant's beside him, a silent sha—… a silent companion, but Grant's apparently run out of words, for once, and Eric's grateful for the quiet.

He's all right.

The others are all right.

There's nothing to fear in the dark, nothing to fear in the shadows, and he hasn't done anything to hurt any of them.

Something seems to loosen, just slightly, in his chest, and he breathes out a soft sigh before allowing his feet to stop and turning his face up towards the washed-out stars. There are too many lights in the city to have any decent star-gazing, but it's still comforting sometimes to look up and see the brightest still blazing determinedly, never giving up despite how quickly the world moves on and how faint they've become.

And now he's getting maudlin over stars.

Smiling to himself, he runs a hand through his hair, trying to untangle the worst of it. He's being silly and ridiculous, and it needs to stop.

The nightmares need to stop.

"Eric?" Grant manages to turn his name into the broadest question imaginable.

"I'm all right." A shiver runs up his spine, as though the phrase is too familiar, has been used too often and with too little truth recently. Shrugging off the odd feeling, he turns to face Grant. "I'm fine. I just… had another nightmare."

"The way you screamed, Eric…" Grant's hands are balled into fists at his sides. "I've never heard anyone scream like that. I thought you were dying, or hurt really badly, or… hell, man, it _scared_ me."

"I'm sorry." It seems inadequate, and he reaches out to gently touch Grant's arm. "Truly, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you like that—I didn't mean to wake you at all. If you want I can start sleeping on the couch."

"What I _want_ is for you to be able to sleep." Grant's fist unclenches, and before Eric can react Grant has his hand in a death-grip. "What's happening to you, Eric? What are you dreaming about?"

"I don't want to talk about it." He doesn't want to think about it. It's nothing—dreams, phantasms, figments of the imagination. It's not real. It can't possibly be real. "Everyone has nightmares, Grant. I've woken you from quite a few over the summer."

"Yeah." Grant's hold relaxes, just slightly, and Eric twists his hand away and free in one swift motion. Grant blinks at his empty hand for a moment before smiling bitterly. "I'll tell you what I've been dreaming about if you'll tell me what you've been dreaming about."

"If you want to talk about your nightmares, I'll be glad to, but I'm not going to talk about mine. I'm handling it myself."

"Normally I'd say fine. Normally I'd say you're infinitely more capable than I am of handling anything. But you're _not_ handling this, Eric. Jona's noticed. Cori's noticed. Con's noticed. Just about all of the Independents have noticed! Are you going to wait until _Mark_ notices something isn't right to admit that maybe you need to see a doctor or… or something, _anything_, other than pretending everything's fine?" Grant crosses his hands over his chest, half-belligerent, half as though expecting a blow.

And that isn't right. He's supposed to be helping Grant. He's supposed to be doing his best to show the other man the potential he has, and help him live up to it. If he's frightening Grant instead…

"I keep dreaming about a war." The words are thick on his tongue, his ears suddenly ringing as he forces his thoughts to the one place they don't want to go. "I keep dreaming about our friends fighting, and dying. Except I'm not… _me_. I'm…"

(_Eric?_)

He can taste it, gunpowder smoke in the air. He can hear bullets, the sharp crack of ancient rifles, the cries of people in a language that isn't his own. He can see the man who is-and-isn't him, the leader, the one responsible—

(_This… is your world?_)

He spins away from Grant, and that's a bad idea as the world seems to twist and buck beneath his feet. The wall is only a foot or two away, but it still takes his groping hand far too long to reach it. Using his hand on the wall as a guide, he allows his suddenly shaking body to slide to the ground.

(_So different… and yet so similar._)

There's a dreamy, half-conscious quality to the voice, and Eric knows without knowing how that the dream-man's still hurt. He's only had a half hour of rest since his last fight, after all, though if Eric's willing to show him this strange new reality while letting him rest…

"No." Shaking his head, Eric squeezes his eyes shut. "This isn't happening. This isn't real."

"What isn't real?" Grant's hand is tentative on his shoulder. "Eric, what happened? What did you see?"

"Nothing." Opening his eyes, Eric stands slowly, forcing himself to take deep, even breaths though his body would much rather hyperventilate right now. The ground stays silent and level beneath his feet, and he's grateful for that. "Nothing happened. I just… like I said, I don't want to talk about the dreams."

"There's kind of a world of difference between 'I don't want to talk about this' and 'I may have some kind of seizure episode and/or pass out if I attempt to talk about this'. What you just did shaded kind of toward the latter." Grant walks around him, until they're face to face again. "Do I need to call an ambulance?"

"No." Shaking his head, Eric runs his hand through his hair again. "I'm… physically fine, at least. I just… might be losing my mind."

"I've heard that's a common side effect of sleep deprivation." Grant smiles, just a slight ghost of his usual grin. "And you, my friend, are very sleep deprived. I know you're not going to get back to sleep for a while, but once it's light out you should get as much catch-up sleep as you can."

It's a tempting thought. For the last few months he's seemed to have better luck sleeping during the day. "There are still things I wanted to do for the rally tonight."

"Like what?"

"I needed to make more copies of both fliers." Starting to walk again, Eric studies his feet as he makes a mental check-list of everything that needs to be done. It's relaxing, in a way, and before they've gone more than a few yards he's starting to feel more like himself. "Plus Cori gave me preliminary arrangements for a new LGBT flier. I told him I'd look it over, add a few dates that he hasn't had a chance to look up yet, and give it back to him tonight. Plus there's tonight, and the fact that I'm supposed to be up on stage in roughly twelve hours—"

"Let me do it." Grant's tone manages to be both demanding and pleading at the same time, and Eric looks over at him in surprise. "You rest. Let me take care of the copies and the fact-checking."

"It's something I agreed to do, Grant. I can't—"

"I've been doing better, haven't I, Eric? I've made copies for you before. I've been doing a lot better about being a semi-responsible adult. You can trust me to do a few things for you so that you can sleep and not do something embarrassing like pass out on stage."

Eric hesitates a moment more, then sees the look of hurt growing on Grant's face at his hesitancy. The man has been doing better over the summer—drinking less, helping more with the Independents, and perhaps it's time to trust him a bit more. "All right. Thanks. I'd appreciate it. Everything's on a flash drive at home. I'll give it to you when we get back."

"And you're not going crazy." There's a firm resoluteness to Grant's assertion that makes Eric smile despite himself. "Trust me. You're a lot of things, but crazy isn't one of them. Or if it is, it's a good crazy."

"I'm… not so sure about that."

"You're also not the only one dreaming about war, or us dying." Grant turns his face away, just briefly. "I've… had some pretty awful nightmares about the others all being killed. Being killed while I slept, _useless_, and… I don't know what started them, or where they came from, but they've been getting worse lately. I'm having a dream like that every few days."

"Maybe you should talk to someone." Frowning, Eric places a hand on Grant's shoulder. "There's no shame in talking to someone if you're having trouble."

Grant turns to him, both eyebrows raised, and Eric feels his cheeks warm. Sighing, Eric shoves both hands in the pockets of his pants. "All right. Point taken. If things don't get any better, I'll find someone to talk to about it."

"Even if it's just Con or Cori or, hell, me, you've got to do something, Eric." Grant speaks with a gravity that Eric's not used to. "Because this thing, whatever it is, it's eating you from the inside out, and that's not something the rest of us can just sit back and watch."

"I'm sorry I've been worrying you and the others." The wind picks up, blowing cans and wrappers along the street and dispelling some of the humidity, making the night almost chilly.

"There's no need to feel sorry." Grant's hand shoves his shoulder, forcing Eric to take a half-step to the side to keep his balance. "Just feel better. That's all we want."

"As you command." Eric gives a small salute, smiling—truly smiling—as he does. "I am, as always, at the people's command."

"I'm not the people you want commanding you." Grant's head turns down, gaze suddenly locked on his feet. "I'm happy just to follow you."

"You're a good man, Grant." Touching Grant's shoulder gently, Eric waits until the other man finally looks over at him to continue speaking. "And I think any heartfelt wish you have would be something I'd have no trouble wanting to implement."

"I…" Grant's foot scuffs along the ground. "I am not drunk or sober enough to have this conversation. But thank you. Thanks for always giving me one more try."

"Thanks for coming out with me tonight." Eric pulls his hand away slowly. "Thanks for putting up with me the last few months, and thanks for telling me I'm not crazy when I've spent the last hour running around like a madman."

Grant laughs, turning away as if embarrassed. "It's nothing one of the others wouldn't have done just as happily. But… I'm glad I can be here. I'm glad I can help you."

"So." Clapping his hands together, Eric takes a look around to get his bearings. He's brought them farther from home than he intended, to one of the small parks that dot the New England cities. That's all right, though. The walk will make it easier for him to get back to sleep despite the dawn light. "How about we head home, then?"

XXX

Eric doesn't go back to bed until the sun's well and truly up, but it only takes a few seconds from the time he lies down for him to be asleep. Grant spends the next ten minutes forcing himself to stay still, to not fidget or pace or otherwise do anything that might wake Eric from his well-needed rest.

Once he's certain that Eric's deeply enough asleep that he won't wake him, he tiptoes over to the voice recorder and picks it up. Slipping out of the room, he holds the recorder close to his chest like a precious treasure.

He doesn't believe that Eric's crazy, no matter what the man himself may suspect. Eric may see a different world from the rest of them, but it's a world grounded in reality.

Hopefully, once he's listened to the recording, he'll have a better idea of what's going on. Then he can move on to doing the things he promised Eric he would do.

He rewinds to an hour before Eric woke him by screaming. The voice is faint, the words slightly slurred, and Grant turns up the volume as far as it will go.

There's definitely a cadence and a rhythm to the syllables that make it sound like words—make it sound like a speech, even—and one or two of the words sound terribly familiar, but he can't understand what's being said.

He can't understand what's being said because it's not English.

Rewinding the recording, he listens again, focusing on the words that had been familiar to him before.

"Oh, God _damn_ it all." Sighing, Grant presses pause on the recording and stares in baleful, impotent wrath at the machine. "If I had known it was going to be this important, I swear, I would have started my foreign language classes before now."


	11. Part Eleven: Translation

**Author's Note:** Thank you again to everyone who reviewed! It's a small thing, but it really makes it worth the time and effort it takes to format and post this. I'm absolutely thrilled that people are enjoying it, and chapters should continue to come out on a weekly basis.

_Part Eleven: Translation_

"Please tell me that there is a good explanation for me no longer enjoying the peace and benefits of REM sleep." Jona yawns for good measure, sliding in next to Con across the table from Grant. "And I know you're going to ignore me again, Grant, but I'd really suggest not using the breakfast buffet. It's incredibly hard to keep food decently sanitary at a buffet, and they don't seem to actually care—"

"I'm sorry to wake you, yes, there is a good explanation, and if it will help you concentrate I promise neither of us will go within ten feet of the breakfast buffet. I think that covers everything you were worried about." Grant struggles not to shift in his seat. Waiting for the replies from everyone about who did and didn't speak French had been difficult. Waiting in the booth for the two who ostensibly speak it to appear had been close to torture, and he's already pretty much used up all the patience his sleep-deprived mind had been able to muster. "Now, would you mind if I explained why I wanted you to come?"

"Please." Jona spreads both hands. "Enlighten me."

"All right. So." Grant pauses, trying to sort his idea into the shortest form possible. He puts his hands in his pockets for a moment and then takes them out, his fingers brushing against the flash drive he picked up from Eric. He makes a mental note not to forget it. "You've both noticed that Eric's been really tired and worn-out lately."

"Yeah." Jona nods at him to continue, while Con just continues to watch him with an implacable stare that Grant's finding more and more discomfiting.

"Well, he's been worn out because he's been having nightmares. And he tends to talk in the nightmares—I've noticed it a couple times, but I've never been able to catch what he's saying. Well, after Con talked to me the yesterday I had the idea that I could try to record what he's saying, and maybe that way we'll know what's haunting him."

"That's an odd choice of words." Con blows on his coffee before taking a small sip. "Why say 'haunting'? Why not bothering?"

Grant shakes his head, continuing on. He can't explain to himself why he's certain there's something more to Eric's problem than what a psychiatrist could solve; trying to explain it to Con would be a losing battle from the start. "So last night I decided to try it. I left a recorder I had by his bed, and I got… well, I got a lot of things. But I can't understand any of it, because it's in French. So I tried to find out who spoke French, and that would be the two of you, and I thought that you could help me translate it, and then we can figure out how to help Eric."

Silence descends, and Grant looks between the other two men hopefully.

After a moment, Con sets down his coffee. "Does he know about this?"

"Well…" Grant hesitates a moment before sighing. "No."

"Have you tried just _asking _him what he's dreaming about?" Con's face is ice-cold, hard to read.

"I did, actually. I think I just about caused him to have a heart attack trying to describe the dreams to me." Grant leaves out the part about asking after he'd already set up the recorder. Sometimes part of the truth is better than the whole truth. "I didn't know what else to do, Con. You said you wanted me to find out what's going on. Well, here's your perfect chance."

"It's… kind of an invasion of his privacy." Jona stares at the tiny recorder as though it could bite him. "I mean, he didn't give us permission to do this."

"It's to help him." Grant can feel his face heating, a combination of shame and frustration. Maybe he hadn't thought this through as well as he thought he had. "He can't talk about it. He's worried that he's going crazy. I don't think he is. I think there's something more going on, and I think we can help figure out what it is."

Jona turns to Con, expression still troubled, and Grant knows that in the end it's going to be Con who decides what happens.

Con's expression shifts, just slightly, and there is suddenly fear in the way his eyes are drawn together, concern in the way his lips turn down, and his hand shakes just slightly as he shoves the recorder back to Grant.

"Play it." The command is chilly, cold, but Grant thinks he can understand, now, the love and the self-sacrifice that lie beneath it.

He rewinds to the start of Eric's speech and presses play.

XXX

"It's definitely French." Con frowns down at the notebook in front of him, where two facing pages have already been devoted to translation. Con's handwriting is neat and precise, the times labeled at the start of most sentences, but every once in a while a shaky line gives silent voice to his distress. "It _can't _be French. Eric doesn't speak it. And even if he did, he wouldn't speak it like _this_."

"What do you mean?" Grant cranes his neck to the side, trying to read the latest sentence that Con's translated.

"Yeah." Jona continues to stare at the recorder. "What're you hearing that my poor translation skills are not?"

"He's using some words that I know are archaic. He's using others that I don't know, but I suspect it's _because_ they're archaic. And he's speaking…" Con twists the pen he's been using between two fingers. "I don't know how to describe it. There's a way that people speak when they're native speakers and a way that non-native people tend to speak, and he's speaking like an educated native speaker."

"So what does this all mean?" Raising his eyes to meet Grant's, Jona frowns. "When you said haunted did you really mean haunted? Do you think there's… ghosts or something involved?"

"I don't know." Grant shrugs. "I still don't know. Especially because it still… I mean, it still sounds like _Eric_. Sure, he's talking about overthrowing a king and he's speaking in ancient French, but there's still… I don't know."

Standing abruptly, Con reaches over to snatch up the recorder. "I need more help. I don't know enough to translate this all on my own."

Grant stands as well, shrugging into his coat. "I'm coming with you."

"I don't need—"

"No." Jona's mouth sets into a stubborn line. "We're all three in this together now. You can't try to cut us out of it. It's too important. Besides, three heads work better than one when trying to figure out the impossible."

Con nods, slowly. "Even if we do come up with a working theory that can explain what's happening, which I'm starting to doubt… he's going to be furious with us. You both know that, right?"

"If it's to help him…" Grant bites his lip, sharply. "If it's to help him, I can handle his anger."

He won't think about other times he's faced Eric's frustration or anger, usually justified and well-earned. He won't think about nightmares, dreams of sleeping through the most important event of his life, of waking to Eric's blood and everything lost. He won't think of playing dominoes, and disappointing a blond-haired, blue-eyed angel with a soul of fire, who only ever asked that Grantaire be as good as the rest of the men who followed him.

(_Enjolras…_)

Jona's hand is on his elbow, suddenly, and within a half-second Con is on his other side, the two of them keeping him steady as the world spins dizzily.

"All right." Jona's voice is tight with anxiety and fear, but it quickly falls into his doctor-cadence. "What just happened?"

"I… don't know." Grant frowns at his feet. The ground seems steady enough again, and he turns from one of them to the other. "I'm all right. I just… I don't know. That was _weird_."

"_What_ was weird?" Con's hand tightens on his arm.

"This may be a stupid question." Grant pauses, carefully disentangling Con's fingers from his arm. He doesn't want Con to squeeze any harder and leave Con-shaped bruises on his arm. "And it may have no bearing on anything, but… have you guys been having weird nightmares over the summer?"

XXX

Con sits patiently in his professor's office while the woman plays back the recording again and again, getting perhaps another half-minute further with each repetition. The woman is completely absorbed in her work, her lips moving softly as she murmurs bits of French followed by bits of English or vice versa. Sometimes she shakes her head and rewinds further.

After what seems an interminable amount of time she turns from her computer to him, her blue eyes wide. "Where did you say you found this again?"

"It's a recording of an old record that my parents had. They thought I should be able to translate it for them, and I thought I could, but I was having some trouble, like I said, and…" Con takes a breath, catching his rambling tongue before it can give him away. Lying has never been his strong suit. "It's a radio drama, I think. That's what it sounds like to me, at least. Maybe a Québecan one?"

Professor Bisset snorts in disdain. "The Quebec imposters wish they could speak French like this. This is an impressive early nineteenth-century Parisian impersonation. The political figures being name-dropped, the place names… someone did their homework."

"So you can translate it? All of it?" He tries not to sound too pleading or eager.

"I can certainly translate all that I can hear clearly." She reaches over to press the play button again, allowing the track to continue forward without making any additional notes. "There's some places—like there—that the voice is too faint or muffled. I can definitely help you with the clear parts, because this is bloody _fascinating_. It's like there's a conversation and we're only getting half of it. Tell me the truth, Con. Where'd you find this?"

"I—" He needs to come up with a better excuse quickly, but he can't seem to manage one, and instead ends up blinking at the woman. "I… can't in good conscience tell you."

"But you can let me listen to it and translate it." Both of Professor Bisset's eyebrows attempt to join her hairline.

"That… actually isn't done completely in good conscience, either, but I'm short on ideas and options." Con finds himself studying his hands intently. He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't be betraying Eric's trust like this. He shouldn't be flaunting whatever's wrong with Eric to people who have no connection to them at all, but it somehow feels terribly important to know what Eric's saying.

Pursing her lips, Bisset studies him for a few moments, the recorder with Eric's voice speaking words it shouldn't be able to still playing in the background. Finally, she nods. "All right, Conlan. You're one of my best students. That's why I agreed to meet you today. More than that, I think you're one of the best young men at this university. So I'll trust you. I'll translate what I can for you, though what you showed me is an admirable start, and maybe some day you'll trust me enough to tell me who, exactly, Courfeyrac and Combeferre and their mysterious friend are."

His ears are suddenly ringing, the computer monitor shining far too brightly, with an unearthly, alien light that he's never seen before.

Except that's foolish. He's used computers almost since the day he was born, fascinated by the machines that have re-worked much of human civilization in first-world countries. He's spent hours programming them, networking them, building them, and there is nothing odd about the computer.

There is nothing odd about the room, and he is certain, _very _certain, that he isn't suddenly understanding everything that Eric's saying on the tape with perfect clarity.

"Conlan?" Bisset's hand reaches across the table, resting on his briefly. "Is everything all right?"

"I'm fine." Raising his head to meet her gaze, he offers what he hopes is a reassuring smile. "I just… could you say those names again?"

"Combeferre and Courfeyrac?"

"Should I… know those names?" Con keeps his breathing steady, his eyes focused on the woman across from him.

Bisset makes a thoughtful noise low in her throat. "I suppose it depends. How much do you care about nineteenth century Parisian literature and history?"

"I'm starting to suspect a great deal." Smiling isn't hard, though his heart's beating too quickly and it's hard to keep his eyes focused on just one thing. There are so many gadgets around, so many fascinating machines and possibilities and—

"Well, those names were made famous in a book that featured, among other things, the June Rebellion of 1832 and some of its more… colorful martyrs. They—"

A terrible scream cuts her off, and Con can feel his face pale as he stares down at the tiny recorder emitting the worst sound he's ever heard in his life.

XXX

Grant studies the buildings surrounding them thoroughly before turning back to Jona. "All of the buildings around here have glass in them. All of that glass can be said to be both transparent and reflective. I am not going to try to point out the particular piece of glass that you are spying."

"Well, maybe you shouldn't have tried to make me decide which particular stretch of cultivated grass could properly be described as 'sea green' as opposed to 'olive' or 'lime'."

"Different species of grass have different colors! It's a valid question. It helped kill time." Grant scuffs at some of the offending grass.

"Well, watching you attempt to label and point at all the windows will also kill time." Jona sighs, his smug expression disappearing. "How long's Con going to be in there, anywhere?"

"I don't know. Hopefully not—" Grant smiles as the door swings open. "Speak of the devil, and they shall appear."

Only this devil doesn't look as happy as Grant had expected, and the smile fades from his face as he takes a step back. Con marches up to him, holds out the recorder, and presses play in one smooth motion.

He knows what's going to happen, and he snatches at the device but he isn't fast enough to cut off the sound in its entirety. He shivers despite the warmth of summer, remembering Eric's face last night as he woke, remembering the fear and terror of being yanked from sleep into wakefulness by that horrible noise.

Con speaks, a slew of angry, accusatory words that Grant can't understand because they're not in English.

"I don't speak French." He smiles bitterly. "That's why we're here, remember?"

Con draws a deep, shuddering breath and repeats himself in stilted English. "He's _screaming_. Like someone's… _torturing_ him. You didn't say—"

"I told you not to let it get much past the end of him speaking." Grant clutches the device close to his chest. "You listened through over two minutes of silence to get to this part."

"Con…" Jona reaches over to touch his arm, but Con flinches away. "Was she able to help us?"

Con raises his right hand and presses hard at the bridge of his nose for a long moment. He exhales a slow breath, adjusts his glasses, and straightens as though presenting a speech in front of a class. "I am an agnostic. I am a scientist. I don't believe in… ghosts and reincarnation and all such associated claims. I don't _disbelieve_, I suppose, since it's quite difficult to disprove such things, but… so could someone please explain to me why I am fairly certain that there is a dead Frenchman speaking to me inside my head right now?"

Silence descends on the small group.

"Anyone?" Con looks from Jona to Grant. "And if you could reassure me that you're quite certain _you_ don't have dead Frenchmen that you've been dreaming about, and that Eric doesn't, I would also find that reassuring.

"Because when the most logical explanation I am coming up with for what's happening involves ghosts, reincarnation, and possibly monsters made out of shadow… I think this may call for a drink and a very long meeting."


	12. Part Twelve: A Failure of Communication

**Author's Note:** Thank you so, so much to everyone who reviewed! I'll be sending individual comments to most of you as soon as I get a chance, but I just wanted to say, once again, thank you. I really appreciate it. Hope you guys enjoy the update!

_Part Twelve: A Failure of Communication_

Eric wakes late in the afternoon to the blaring of the alarm clock by his bed.

Jerking upright, he fumbles for the correct button to turn the machine off. It really shouldn't be this hard to find. People who were drunk or hung over managed to find it. This should not be a difficult task.

Most people actually had to use their alarm clocks, though, and he's fairly certain he hasn't managed to sleep until his alarm for the last three months.

Finally managing to get the infernal machine to shut up, he stares at the glowing red numbers in horrified fascination for a few seconds.

He slept through most of the day.

He was up half the night screaming his head off in nightmares, and he slept through most of the day.

Granted, he feels a lot better now than he did when he went to sleep. He actually feels capable of stringing thoughts together in something approaching coherency, and he'll undoubtedly look less like a zombie, at least once he's showered and combed out his tangled hair. The terrible feeling of helplessness, of being trapped and hunted—of reality possibly ripping apart at the seams at any moment—has faded. He feels more like himself than he has in days.

Something still feels… _brittle_ inside him, though. Touching his chest, he wonders, briefly, at the fact that there's no pain, no bruising, no needle-sharp pricks in his skin.

Which there shouldn't be.

Because it was all a dream, and a dream that he's not going to think about.

(_Eric…_)

He's going to get ready for their rally tonight. He's going to shower and dress and meet up with the others on time, and he's going to be fine. He's going to alleviate any fears they've been harboring about him or his health.

And then he's going to start looking into what mental health coverage his insurance plan has, because he doesn't know exactly how much more of this he can take.

XXX

"They're late."

Lyle paces back and forth next to Maria, his hands alternating between being clenched at his side and wringing together in frustration.

"Lyle." Maria draws his attention to where she sits on the pizza table. "They're fine. He's with Con. You told me he's the most responsible one out of all of you."

"That's why I'm worried." Lyle pauses next to her, his eyes far more haunted than they have any right to be. "They're with Con and they're late. If Con's late—"

"They could be stuck in traffic. They could have gotten stuck behind a train. They could be having car trouble. Con might have met a book that he simply can't be pulled away from, or gotten involved in an experiment that will leave gaping craters in some poor laboratory if they leave before it's done. There's all sorts of possibilities for them being late that don't involve anything terrible happening." Reaching out to stroke his face gently, she frowns in confusion. His eyes have dark rings around them, as though he's been sleeping poorly. "Why're you wound so tight?"

"I'm sorry." Lyle sighs, though he pulls away from her touch, his eyes darting to the others before dropping to the floor.

Folding her hands in her lap, Maria tries not to let the rebuttal sting. He's already upset; upsetting him more by potentially outing him before he's ready wouldn't help anything. She's Jona's girlfriend, officially, though she wishes her boys would just tell their friends the whole of what their relationship is already. If anyone could accept them for who they are, it would be this strange collection of hodgepodge revolutionaries that has gathered around Eric. "It's all right. Just… if there's anything wrong…"

"Nothing that really matters." Lyle rubs both hands against his temples for a moment. "I've just had nightmares about… about awful things happening to Jona or the others. Maybe it's something in the air."

Maria frowns, scuffing her right foot against the ground as she thinks. "Jona had a nightmare, too, last time I stayed over. And two times before that you woke us up whimpering."

"Yeah." Smiling ruefully, Lyle shrugs. "We seem to alternate who's having nightmares and who's doing the waking up. It started a few months ago, but it's been getting pretty bad the last two weeks or so. One of us is having a nightmare every other night or so. Last night was my night."

"Poor thing." Maria longs to touch his face again, to wrap her arm around him and comfort him, but that will have to wait for later.

"It's not just us, either." Lyle clambers up onto the table next to her, somehow managing to knock one of the pizza boxes onto the ground as he does and earning a brief scolding from Erin. "Sorry. Right. Barry's had a few nightmares, too, about being in a war—Jona and I have been treated to a few drunken rants about how stupid it would be for them to reinstate the draft, and how if they give him a gun they better be aware that he knows how to use it and who he's aiming for. Eric's apparently been having nightmares, too, so bad he looked just about ready to pass out yesterday."

Glancing over at the group's blond-haired leader, Maria studies him for any signs that he's having trouble. She can't see anything—he seems just as handsome as ever, with no dark circles around his eyes, and the way he's directing people to set up seems perfectly normal. "He looks all right now."

"Yeah." Lyle follows the direction of her gaze. "He does. And Jona and I are fine, too. It's just… it's tiring. Which I know sounds really incredibly stupid, that losing sleep is tiring, but having nightmares like this is just starting to wear me down."

"Any idea what caused it?" She can touch his hand, at least, offer a friend's comfort of her fingers over his. "Does Jona have any ideas—ones that aren't just medical student paranoia?"

Lyle closes his mouth and pauses, a wry smile making his face almost as handsome as Eric's, at least in her opinion. Who needed hair, anyway? Balding was just as cute as the blond lion look. "Well, I think the sanest option we came up with is that the government has started adding something to the water to make political discontents paranoid."

"So no ideas then." Maria frowns. "The cops haven't been giving you trouble, have they?"

"They've been making really sure that all of our permits are filed with the properly dotted i's and crossed t's, but otherwise they haven't done anything. I think some of them would _like_ to, especially since we've started getting some serious turn-out at these last few, but we're not doing anything illegal. And Eric makes very sure that they know he is aware of exactly what his rights are, and Con seems to like doing the paperwork, so it's working out all right."

"Still, it's stressful. Knowing that you're being watched like that." Squeezing his hand slightly, she resists the urge to lean her head against his shoulder. "Don't worry, though. They'll have to go through me to get to either of you."

"Not so much when we're throwing ourselves in front of the firing squad." Lyle returns the pressure on her hand. "You could always join us here in front of the firing squad, though. There's plenty of room in the Independents."

Maria laughs, shaking her head. "I'm already attending as many of these meetings as I can. Some of us have to work in order to stay in a house, you know."

"You'll always have a house with Jona and I." Lyle speaks quietly but sincerely. "At least so long as my luck hasn't managed to set the house on fire, have it picked up by a tornado, or drowned it in a flood."

Maria eyes him uncertainly. "Has this happened to your previous houses?"

"Never all to the same one." Lyle jumps off the table, a grin spreading across his face. Raising a hand, he points toward the parking garage where all of their cars are currently parked. "And there is our missing trio, in one piece, just like you said."

Lyle pauses, the smile on his face fading.

Looking at the trio currently headed towards Eric, Maria frowns. All three are there, and all three are in one piece. She can't tell what Lyle's seen to make him look so nervous and unhappy again. "What? What is it?"

"Con." Lyle murmurs the name. "He's upset."

Looking back at the trio Maria sees that the young man's mouth is set a firm line, his shoulders squared, and Maria supposes it's a more aggressive stance than she usually sees the man take. "So?"

"So he's going to see Eric and he's upset." Lyle starts making his way through the slowly-gathering crowd toward the stage where Eric's still standing. "It's Con. He's going to see Eric. Con and Eric are like… like two halves of the same soul, in a non-homoerotic way. Well, I think non-homoerotic… anyway, the point is that if Con's so upset about something that even the prospect of seeing Eric isn't calming him down…"

"It's something bad." Maria follows Lyle, her gaze jumping from Conlan to Jona. Jona seems upset, too, his hands in his back pockets, chewing on his bottom lip, his eyes darting across the crowd when they aren't staring in glazed fixation at something just in front of him that Maria can't see.

Picking up her pace, she finds her jaw setting firmly, her lips pressing tightly together. Jona and Lyle are her boys, and Conlan and Eric and the rest are very dear to them. If anyone's trying to hurt them…

She might not be the best revolutionary there is, but no one could ever accuse her of not protecting her own.

XXX

Eric smiles when he sees Con walking towards him, Grant and Jona in tow, though the smile fades when Con fails to return it. Leaving Barry and Cori to finish setting up the microphones, he heads over to meet the tardy members of their group.

Con speaks before Eric can even greet them. His voice is low and determined, matching his wary expression. "We need to talk."

"All right." Eric keeps his voice low, too. "What about?"

"Not here. Not in front of others, and I don't know how many of the Independents should even be there, but at least you, me, Grant, Jona, and probably Cori and Lyle are involved." Con presses his glasses tight to the bridge of his nose, his eyes refusing to meet Eric's. "You need to meet with us as soon as this is over. Promise me."

"All right. I promise." Eric makes the promise slowly, glancing over at Grant and Jona to see if they'll give him any clues that will make sense out of the way Con's acting. Grant seems to shift between looking guilty and triumphant, his eyes focused more on the ground than on what's happening around him; Jona looks as though any sudden loud noise will cause him to spook and run. "Why am I promising this? I'm not exactly prone to being unreasonable about spending time with you, you know. What happened to the three of you?"

"That would take much longer to explain than the five minutes that we have before you're supposed to start talking." Con's jaw clenches, hard. "Just… no matter what happens, no matter how frustrated or angry or… or frightened anything makes you, you promised me. You're going to meet with us tonight so we can explain things and try to determine just what in hell's good fucking name is going on."

Eric blinks. Con usually doesn't swear.

Con usually doesn't insinuate that he's a coward, running from anything that would frighten him.

"Congratulations." Eric eyes the trio warily. What is going on with them? "You've suddenly made me very anxious to have this rally over with. I'm pretty certain that's something that's never happened before."

"I swear, Eric, if I had any way to succinctly explain things that wouldn't leave you thinking that we're completely insane…" Con looks miserable as he adjusts his glasses once more.

"It's fine. We'll talk when everything's over." Eric finds his frustration fading. Anything that leaves Con this upset must be important, and if he thinks it's too complicated to get into right now then Eric will just have to accept that. "Did you make the copies like you said you would, Grant?"

Grant raises his eyes to meet Eric's, a stricken look on his face.

"You didn't." Eric knows the answer before Grant shakes his head, his eyes wide. "You took the flash drive, thereby making it impossible for me to make the copies, and then you didn't make them."

"Eric, I'm sorry." Grant's voice is a soft whisper, terrified, lost. "I didn't mean to. I just—I wanted to find out what was going on with you, and then I lost track of time with everything that we found out and… it just slipped my mind…"

"What do you mean?" Eric keeps his voice calm and quiet, not wanting to attract the crowd's attention. "What does this have to do with me?"

"I… might have, maybe… voice recorded you while you were dreaming." Eric can barely hear the words, Grant's voice is so quiet and thready.

"You _what_?" Looking from Grant to Jona and Con, Eric can feel cold fury building inside him. "This is what you need to talk to me about so badly? Those damn _dreams_ again?"

He takes their silence as assent.

"Great. Fantastic." He has to keep his anger in check. He can't make a scene, not here, not when others are watching. "I suppose I should have expected something like this from you, Grant. Letting you do something that actually needed to be done right away was beyond foolish on my part. And I suppose I can see how you talked Jona into going along with your plan, though I thought that those ethics classes you're supposed to take would cover invasion of privacy, Jona. But _really_, Conlan. I thought—"

"Eric." Con's expression wavers between furious and inconsolably sad, eventually ending on furious. "Don't do this."

"Don't do what?" He should stop, now. He should leave it alone. They're his friends. They're worried about him. But that brittle spot in his chest hurts again, and he doesn't know what they heard on the tape but if it's got Con this upset it must have been him saying something terrible, and he hasn't had nearly enough sleep in the last week to handle this. "Don't get upset because you did this behind my back? Don't get upset that you're late, that we look unprofessional and unprepared? I _trusted _you, Conlan."

"And I didn't do anything to betray that!" Con snaps back at him, taking a step forward, hands clenched into fists at his side. "If you'd actually _talked_ to any of us over the summer instead of being so damn proud and certain you could handle everything then maybe we would have figured things out sooner! Maybe we wouldn't have _had_ to go behind your back! Do you think I _enjoyed _this, Enjolras?"

Eric takes a staggering step back, not sure whether his chest or his head hurts more as the simple name stabs through him like a knife. Con shouldn't know that name. Con shouldn't have anything to do with the nightmares.

(_Con…?_)

The man that Con called wakes, slowly, uncertainly, and Eric finds his eyes glancing around the familiar bandstand as though he's never seen it before. He helped to choose this location. He's seen structures like this all his life. He shouldn't find the lines of the 70's architecture alien, the wiring for the electronics and microphones confusing and disorienting, the clothes of the gathered crowd bizarre and unfamiliar.

"Eric." Con's face has paled, and he reaches out his right hand tentatively, as though afraid of the reaction he's going to get. "I'm sorry. It's all right."

"That name—" His tongue feels thick and wrong in his mouth, and it's hard to sort his thoughts into words. It's hard to tell what thoughts are his and what belong to the _other_, to the man who has no right to exist, and he draws in another shuddering breath. "How do you—"

"We'll talk about it later." Con's hand is on his elbow, a gentle touch. "We don't need to deal with it now. Let it go, just for now."

He would. He gladly would, but he can't ignore or deny Enjolras anymore. The man is awake, fully conscious, not half-dead like the other times he's heard echoes of Enjolras' voice. Eric draws another breath, trying to sort out what he's going to say, but though the voice is his the word and the accent that emerges aren't. "Combeferre?"

"Enjolras?" Con says the word properly, his expression changing from one of concern and dismay to one of wonder and joy. He continues, in perfect French that Eric can understand even though he shouldn't be able to. "Enjolras, it's me. It's all right. I think most of us are here—at least Joly and Grantaire are, and I suspect that Courfeyrac and Bossuet are, and—"

Alive. They're alive, despite all that he's seen for the last month, despite what he _knows_ happened, and they're here with him. Combeferre is here in front of him, and even if the face isn't quite right the expression is, and—

And he's not Enjolras. He is not the man who led them to the barricades, to their deaths. He is not the man who dispensed vigilante justice, who shot a man in cold blood. He is not the man that Combeferre begged not to kill. He is _not_, and he will not let that man have control of his body.

"I am not a murderer. I am _not_. Combeferre—"

It's his voice, but they're not his words, not his language, and Eric throws himself against the steel-hard will of the man who shouldn't exist. He will not let this theft go unchallenged.

Fear and fury collide with overwhelming joy and stubborn determination, and the world disappears in a haze of red.

XXX

Enjolras—Eric—_both_ of them, the body that they're sharing, collapse in his arms, and Con feels Combeferre take a hasty step back, trusting that the future will have more advanced medical knowledge than the past.

Which is true, all things considered, but that doesn't mean he has any more of an idea of what to do than the dead Frenchman currently sharing his body and soul with him. None of the medical classes that he's had have covered how to handle a poor response to finding out that reincarnation is, for better or worse, a very real phenomenon.

"He's bleeding." Jona makes the statement, his hands helping Con to settle Eric down gently on the ground. "Con, he's bleeding."

"I can see that." Blood has started to trickle from Eric's nostrils, and his blue eyes stare fixedly at something that Con can't see.

_What's wrong with them?_ Concern colors Combeferre's mental voice—or that's the way Con allows his mind to interpret the feelings of fear, concern, loyalty that the portion of his brain currently processing Combeferre's reactions is sending to him.

"I don't know." He can speak to Combeferre non-verbally, but it takes more concentration than just speaking out loud. He manages not to snap out the words, feeling his own fear for and affection for Eric mirrored in Combeferre's fear for and love of Enjolras. Fighting with Combeferre won't help anything… and, maybe, would land him on the ground right next to Eric.

Jona has Eric propped against him, Eric's head held tipped forward so the blood that's flowing faster with each beat of his heart won't run back down his throat and choke him. Eric still hasn't moved, though his muscles tense and twist every few seconds as though considering movement. Or as though he's trying to have a seizure, and Con finds his jaw clamping tight.

This needs to stop, and it needs to stop now.

Leaning forward, he cups Eric's chin in one hand and clamps Eric's nostrils closed with the other. After a moment Eric takes a shuddering breath through his mouth, though his eyes stay unfocused, fixed on a battle that they can't help him with.

"Con, you shouldn't—" Jona makes a soft, concerned sound in the back of his throat. "You're going to have his blood all over both your hands. I have gloves in the car—I might have some in my back pocket, actually."

"It's Eric. I don't care."

"You should. Even people who aren't drug users and don't have sex can have blood-borne diseases. Not just HIV. There's—"

"Jona." Con forces his voice to stay calm. If his voice is calm, he will be calm, though he wants to be anything but at the moment. "Help me figure out how to help him."

"I don't know." Jona whispers the words, his hands tightening on Eric's arms. "What happened? Combeferre and Enjolras were talking, and then he just…"

"They're fighting." Con whispers the words to himself, to Jona, to the man in his head. "I think… they're fighting."

_Why?_ Combeferre's voice is quiet, contained, but Con can feel that it's the same kind of quiet containment that he's currently operating under. If there were something here for them to attack, they would. In the absence of that, they'll have to think, no matter how much more satisfying beating something to protect their people would be.

Taking a slow breath, Con tries to work his way through what might have happened. "Because they don't understand. Because I forced them together before they were ready to accept it. It took us the better part of a day to get to this point, Combeferre, and Eric had already been pushed close to the edge before this…" Snapping his eyes up to Eric's, Con stares hard into his best friend's unblinking gaze. "Eric. Enjolras. Stop this. Right now."

He hopes he's right. He hopes it's nothing worse—nothing that the shadow's done to them, nothing in Eric or Enjolras that's been broken somehow by this impossible, terrible, wonderful experiment that they're living through.

For a moment Eric's eyes focus, meet his, and Eric's hand is suddenly tight around Con's wrist. "Con —I can't—he won't—"

EriceEriEr doesn't scream. He doesn't cry. He just… goes away again, to someplace that Con can't follow, and it would really be infuriating if it wasn't so frightening.

"Talk to him." Con knows that Combeferre is listening. Half of the Independents are listening, too, but he doesn't have time to deal with that right now, especially since at least the Independents are keeping the rest of the crowd away from Eric. "Tell him to back off—to go back to sleep, if he can, at least for a little bit."

For a moment he's afraid Combeferre is going to argue with him. Then he hears the assent, feels the truth behind it, and forces himself to step back and not fight as the man who is-and-isn't him starts using his body.

"Enjolras." Combeferre uses the same tone that Con had, the one they use those few times that Eric -Enjolras is being stubborn about something foolish. He speaks in French, and Con finds himself fascinated by how similar and yet different it is from the French that he learned through classes and studying abroad. "Look at this."

Con tries not to panic or fight as he watches his right hand move, without his volition, the blood-coated fingers waving back and forth in front of Eric's unblinking eyes.

"You're making yourself bleed, my friend." Combeferre's tone softens. "And I have already seen more blood than I ever wanted to—more of _yours_ than I ever wanted to, even if it's only been in dreams. You need to stop fighting with Eric. If Con and I have sorted things out properly, which is a very large if, then you're the same person, making this entire thing quite ridiculous."

Eric's eyes focus again, and the sheer relief and overwhelming joy that shines from his face makes Con's heart ache. When Enjolras speaks it's in French, the voice and accent and cadence far too familiar to Con through this afternoon's work, but his grip on Con's wrist is the same as Eric's was. "You're alive, Combeferre. You're—"

Eric's body arches back, only Jona's hold keeping him from collapsing, and a fresh stream of blood begins trickling down his face.

"_Enough._"

Con's not sure which of them speaks, him or Combeferre. They're too much in agreement on this, and they repeat the command in French and English before Con lets Combeferre take definitive control again. "Enjolras, peace. We'll have plenty of time later to talk and explain things. Leave the boy his body, at least for the moment, and—"

Eric isn't a boy. He's not quite as old as Enjolras had been when he died, but he's certainly an adult, one that Con is very proud to call his friend. Con finds himself shoving Combeferre aside without meaning to, and he winces as a shard of pain like the start of a migraine stabs through his head.

_I'm sorry._ Combeferre is contrite, though his opinion of Eric seems largely unchanged. _He's just… he's fighting him when Enjolras' just happy to see me _alive_, Conlan. Or… not quite as dead as I should be, at least. It's childish._

"You don't know what's happened to them. You don't know what Eric's seen or what's been done to them or how it might have changed your man. Don't denigrate mine until we _know_." Con forces his eyes to focus, once more, on Eric's. "Which doesn't give you permission to be an idiot, Eric. If he's backing off, you do too. I want you talking to me within the next ten seconds. If you can't…"

Eric blinks, slowly, and the ghost of a smile appears on his lips. It's a rather ghastly smile, with most of Eric's lower face coated in blood despite Con's best efforts, but it's infinitely better than the blankness that came before. "If I don't, what?"

"If you don't, I'll continue to make a scene until you do or until the ambulance arrives. Whichever happens first." Con finds a smile on his own face, sheer giddy relief flooding his body as Eric slowly sits up under his own power.

"Con…" Eric winces, reaching up to touch his bloody face, looking down at his shirt and frowning at the blood soaking into the fabric there as though that should make it disappear. "Con, I think there's something very important that we really need to talk about after this rally's over."

Con finds himself staring open-mouthed at Eric's straight face and grave blue eyes. Sighing, he stands and holds a hand out to help Eric to his feet. "You know, sometimes even _I_ can't tell when you're trying to be funny."

Eric stands, and though he plants his feet as though he's dizzy at least he stays upright. "It's quite easy to tell, really. It's when I say something amusing."

Con hugs Eric. He can't stop himself. He's too happy to have him upright again, to have him _alive_, to have them all together, and for a moment it's hard to sort his thoughts from Combeferre's and he doesn't care.

They're all right. They're alive. As long as they're alive and together, they can find a way to handle anything the world throws at them.

"It's all right, Con. I'm all right." Eric returns his embrace for a moment, his voice regaining the strength and surety that it's supposed to have. "Come on. Let's give Cori the stage, since neither of us quite present the picture that we intended to right now, and see if we can get cleaned up. After this…"

Eric releases him, turning to the rest of the Independents, still standing in a loose circle around Jona, Eric and Con, keeping the crowd calm and several feet away from them. "There's going to be a meeting at my place tonight, and all of the Independents should be there. We'll discuss what happened then. Until that time, everyone knows the drill. Let's make up for lost time."

Even covered in his own blood, he's a good leader. Eric calms the crowd with a few words, gives the stage to Cori, and then makes his way back to Con, talking to and reassuring most of the Independents on the way. The ambulance arrives before he can reach Con's side again, so Con simply follows him to it, using the towels and wipes they give him to clean off as much of Eric's blood from his hands as he can, reciting his insurance information, and then allowing the standard spiel about potential blood-borne diseases to register somewhere in his mind while the majority of his thoughts are directed inward.

_He is Enjolras._ Con directs the thought to the place in his mind where Combeferre's lurked all day. He can tell that Combeferre's still awake, still aware, watching things through his eyes with a ravenous curiosity. _He's different, because the time is different, but he is Enjolras._

_I know._ Combeferre's response is contemplative, calm. _I never intended any insult to you or him, Conlan. They were poorly chosen words in the heat of the moment._

Con relaxes, slightly, hoping that Combeferre will read his acceptance of the apology as well as his own apology for pushing Combeferre away, however temporarily.

_I'm not the one we have to worry about, though._

Combeferre's voice is quiet, worried, and Con finds their eyes watching Eric again as Eric watches Cori on the stage, acting for all the world like he didn't just spend about four minutes prone on the ground, bleeding.

_It's Eric and Enjolras who need to accept each other, and given what happened…_ Combeferre hesitates.

"Given what happened…" Con completes the thought, though he wishes he didn't have to. "That might be significantly harder than it should be."

Con's contemplation is cut short by Jona coming up beside him, the man's eyes darting from Eric to Con and back.

"What's wrong, Jona?" Con smiles at the would-be doctor. "And thanks for your help earlier."

"I didn't do much." Jona's eyes drop to the ground, and Con can see the self-recrimination there.

"You did plenty. You were there, and you tried to help."

"It doesn't matter. That's not what I wanted to talk to you about." Jona shakes his head, eyes darting across the crowd again. "What I wanted to know is have you seen Grant around."

Con frowns, looking around the perimeter of the crowd, at the tables where they have the pizza spread out, at the bandstand, but he doesn't see Grant with any of the other Independents. Is he somewhere in the crowd? "I last saw him when Eric stood up. He was helping to keep the crowd back."

"That's the last time I saw him, too. And the last time Barry saw him, and the last time Lyle saw him. Which makes me pretty sure it was the last time he was here." Jona hesitates, looking over at Eric. "I tried calling him and sending him a text, but he hasn't answered. Should I point it out to Eric?"

Con hesitates for a long moment before shaking his head. "Not right now. Make sure he knows there's a meeting tonight. Hopefully he'll be there. If not…"

Con sighs, rubbing once more at his glasses and the bridge of his nose.

"If not, we'll make sure to find him before the night's over."


	13. Part Thirteen: Explanations of a Sort

**Author's Note:** Life has been crazy, so sorry for not replying to people sooner, but I do so appreciate the reviews. Cosette and Jehan will both be in this story; they'll be coming in over the next few chapter. Also, for anyone interested, my beta did a piece of fanart for the story! It's available here: albums/ab334/estelwolfe/EricandEnjolrasinShadow_ . Hope someone enjoys!

_Part Thirteen: Explanations of a Sort_

Erin waits for Mark to wander her way, because waving at him is apparently not a good way to get his attention, and when he reaches for a piece of pizza she grabs his hand and holds it firmly.

Mark looks up at her with a startled expression. "What is it?"

Trying not to get frustrated with him, Erin nods her head towards where Eric's standing in his blood-spattered shirt to the left of the stage. Con, mostly cleaned up, is climbing up onto the stage with Cori, though she suspects from the way he keeps glancing back at Eric that he would much rather stay with the blond man. "What happened?"

"I really haven't the faintest idea." Mark shakes his head, his brow furrowing as he watches his friends. "Or at least, no ideas that make the slightest bit of sane sense."

"Did Con punch Eric?" Erin lets Mark's hand go, fairly certain he's not going to just continue wandering now that she's actually engaged him in conversation. "'Cause _that's_ weird and unusual behavior."

"No." Mark smiles, shaking his head as he picks up a piece of pepperoni pizza. "It's like Eric told the crowd—he just started bleeding."

"Oh." The exclamation sounds a bit more disappointed than she intended it to. She doesn't want Eric and Con to be fighting. It just made a lot more sense to her than anything Eric had said during his brief stint on stage to reassure everyone that he wasn't dying. "What's hemophilia?"

"It's a bleeding disorder, where people don't clot and can bleed to death from small injuries." Mark swallows a bite quickly, coughing as he chokes on it. "Don't worry, he's not a hemophiliac. No hemophiliac would survive learning the kind of self-defense moves he's shown off on occasion. I think he was trying to make a joke with that statement."

"So it's that disease that the royal families have, right, from too much incest?" Erin grins, proud that for once she actually _does_ know what Eric was talking about, even if she didn't know she knew.

A bemused smile slides across Mark's face. "Yeah. I suppose. Though people can just have hemophilia due to random genetic mutations, I think."

"Neat." She doesn't really care about hemophilia, though, now that she at least knows where to file the strange word. "But it doesn't explain what happened. Come on, Mark, you were up there in that little protective circle. You actually saw what happened, while I was stuck here. Give me some clues."

"I would gladly tell you what was going on if I actually knew." Mark's expression takes on a worried cast as he glances back at the stage. "He and Con were arguing, I think, but I'm at least pretty certain Con didn't hit him. If he did, he felt terrible about it afterward. I missed the start of it, Erin—I didn't notice anything was going on until Cori called for us to do crowd control. But they were talking partly in French, and… have you finished that book that I checked out for you yet?"

"What, the depressing one?" Both eyebrows raised, Erin tries not to wonder about how they ended up on this topic of conversation when she asked a very simple question. Sometimes Mark's brain seemed to work in funny ways, but she could usually steer it back to what she actually wanted to know. And she needs to know if the Independents are going to fall apart on her, because if they are she needs to really not care so much about these silly college boys with their grand dreams. "I'm a little over half-way through it. The narrator's switched to Marius, and he's having a weird childhood and then making weirder friends. Korferak, is that how you say his name? He's being funny and clever right now."

"Courfeyrac. Yeah." There's a strange twist to Mark's voice as he watches Cori. "He's got a tendency to do that."

Erin waits for Mark to continue, but he seems content to just sit and stare at Cori and Con like a very confused puppy. Tapping his hand again, she draws his attention back to her before he can start wandering off again. "I am completely lost as to how your weird book fits in with your weird friends and their weird bleeding attacks."

"That makes two of us." Sighing, Mark shakes his head. "Hopefully it'll make more sense after the meeting tonight. Maybe they've been role-playing or something. I don't know. It just… it doesn't all fit together in any sane way."

"Wait." Erin quickly sorts the important information out of the barrage of semi-coherent mutterings. "What meeting tonight?"

"Eric called a meeting tonight at his place." Mark shrugs. "Con texted the address to all of us, so it shouldn't be hard to get there. Eric said he wants all the Independents to be there."

"I can't come tonight." Glaring up at the young man, Erin tries hard not to grit her teeth. "I've told you guys before that you need to give me more warning if you're going to have meetings. I actually have a life outside of this thing."

"So do the rest of us." Mark looks taken aback at her anger. "We've all got things we do outside the Independents, even Eric. Granted, Eric's are more like extracurricular preparation to be a better rebel lead—"

Mark cuts himself off abruptly, his eyes widening, the pupils expanding until the beautiful iris has almost disappeared entirely. Erin frowns at him, reaching over to hold his suddenly-clammy fingers. "Mark? What is it?"

"It's nothing, I hope." Mark's fingers clench hard around hers. "I just… have you been having any weird dreams lately? Any… French dreams?"

"No." In any other situation she would want to laugh at his use of the phrase French dreams. She's not entirely sure what he could want it to mean, but she's certain there about a dozen dirty ways it could be interpreted. Now isn't the time for laughing at his college-student ways, though. Not when she recognizes the look on his face, in his eyes, the fear and terror that college-boys aren't supposed to understand.

His fear makes it easier to let the lie slip off her tongue, especially when he relaxes, a small, sheepish smile gracing his lips as he nods. "Of course you aren't. I'm just being foolish."

"You? Never." She releases his hand, giving his shoulder a slight shove across the table. There's a smile on her own face as she watches him, so pretty, so kind, so smart, and she really shouldn't care about him as much as she does.

And if she's had one or two or a half-dozen dreams about dying in Paris, it's no doubt just because of the book he's having her read. There's no need to make herself look like an idiot or to worry him by answering yes to his silly question.

"So what prior engagements do you have that are going to keep you from joining us tonight?" He leans against the pizza table, apparently deciding to take up residence next to her for the duration of the meeting.

"I…" She's going to be playing look-out for her father, helping him to rob a house that they've been casing for the last week. The sheer incompatibility of that reality with her current situation strikes her full-force, and she hesitates even though she knows she shouldn't. Let a lie roll off her tongue. Say something, anything, but don't let him know what's really going on.

Don't let any of them know what's really going on. Just enjoy the time she has with them, their playing at saving the world. Enjoy the meals they give her, the time they spend with her, the quiet, conscientious way they listen to her words and actually pretend to care about her ideas. Let this little dream-world last for as long as it can, and never let her real life touch it. "I'm going out with some friends that I haven't seen in a while."

"Oh?" Mark smiles, not the least bit suspicious. "Did they go off to college somewhere else?"

For a moment she just stares at him. Then she smiles, brushing her fingers against his and shaking her head. "No. You're the first college-boy I've really gotten to know well, Mark."

"That's a shame." Mark continues to smile. "There are some nice guys out there. They're not all quite as… focused as the Independents are, either. I could introduce you to some others, if you want. And maybe you should think about attending college yourself. You're certainly smart enough."

A blush rises to her cheeks, completely unbidden, but she's grinning anyway. She can't help it. "It's not about being smart, you know. It's about being able to afford it."

"That's why there are scholarships." Shrugging, as though several thousand dollars a semester is nothing, Mark opens up another pizza box. "Finny gets by mainly on scholarships, I think."

"Yes, but… that's him." Erin hesitates, not wanting to think about the man. Out of all the Independents, she gets the distinct impression that he's the one who sees right through her the most, to what she really is when she isn't playing at being one of them. He's never been anything but kind to her, but he seems to _know_ her situation in a way that the others don't. "Where's he been the last few weeks, anyway?"

Mark shrugs again. "Home, I think, for some kind of family emergency. You'd have to ask Cori or Barry or Eric if you want to know more."

"I gladly would, but you're all going to be having a very important meeting without me." She tries not to sound too sulky as she says it. Eric calling an emergency meeting is actually out of the ordinary, and it's not his fault that she needs to stay in her father's good graces if she wants to eat.

And that's the last time she's thinking about her father and Eric in the same sentence. Some things just didn't belong anywhere near each other.

"I promise I will tell you all about what we talk about tomorrow." Mark reaches over and squeezes her hand for a moment. "Deal?"

"Deal." She returns the pressure on his hand. Anything that will give her an excuse to talk to him, to be with him, is just fine by her. The fact that he'll actually be talking to her about things she might, maybe, care about is just icing on the cake.

XXX

James watches the young men, waiting for any sign of tension between them, for any other outbursts of violence that he might actually be able to witness first-hand and call them on, but they behave perfectly. They never stray outside the lines of their permits, though they manage to work the crowd into a fair fervor by the time they're halfway through the meeting.

"Evenin', detective."

James looks down at the scruffy child who has appeared at his side, frowning in annoyance. "I'm not here as a detective, Gary."

"You don' have any otha' roles, detective. Even in a cheap jacket an' with your hair uncombed, you're still Detective Santiago." The child grins up at him, crooked teeth in a face that hasn't been washed in far too long. "So what brings y' t' my neighborhood?"

"I'm just watching them, the same as anyone else." Turning back to the stage, James attempts to ignore the child. He's not here looking for child thieves. Not today.

"Have they done somethin', then?" There's an eagerness in Gary's voice that James finds distasteful as the child cranes his neck to try to see over the adults around him. "Other than brawlin' in public. Surprised y' didn' arrest 'em for that. You're usually real quick with those handcuffs o' yours."

"I didn't see the altercation, and they claim that there wasn't one." Scowling, James tries to ignore the frustration he feels at that. He had been watching their leader, even, hoping to catch him doing something, _anything_, that would at least justify bringing the boy in for questioning. He had seen Eric approach his second in command, and the next thing he knew Eric was on the ground.

He hadn't seen the punch thrown, though. If there even had been one. As much as he wants to have a good reason to bring these… _annoying_ college boys in for questioning, he finds it hard to believe that they're turning on each other. They've been too good at showing a united front for him to expect that, at least not in front of a crowd.

"What're they sayin'?" Gary jumps up and down in place, speaking around a piece of pizza. "Are they doin' anythin' cool?"

He did not come here to translate the diatribes these college boys are speaking into a language that Gary can understand. He hadn't planned to see anyone who would recognize him here, period, but given how long he's worked in this town and how many people he's seen punished for their crimes it isn't surprising that at least one of the people he's met in a professional capacity is here and recognizes him.

"Have you stolen anything recently, Gary?" James asks the question calmly.

The boy stops bouncing in place, turning a reproachful glare on James. "I thought you said that you wasn't here as a cop."

"I thought you said that I'm always a cop." Sighing, James turns his full attention on the boy. He's not going to find out anything more about these college kids by listening to them speak—nothing that he doesn't already know from the other times he's scoped out their rallies, anyway. "You're eleven now, Gary. Pretty soon they're going to start trying you as an adult, and then you're going to be in trouble."

"Yeah, well, starvin's also a fair piece o' trouble." The child speaks flippantly, as though the law and his future don't matter.

If he were even just a year or two older, James wouldn't bother. Once people reached a certain age, they were impossible to save. They even seemed to thrive on and enjoy the way they leeched off of proper society, flippantly showing off their stolen wealth, demeaning education, bragging about their 'lifestyle' as though it were something to be proud of instead of something to be condemned.

But Gary is still a child, a child whose parents James would dearly love to see behind bars, and there might still be a chance to save him.

James himself hadn't ended up following in his father's footsteps, after all.

"If your parents aren't feeding you, Gary, then we can charge them with child abuse." Running his eyes over Gary's slight frame, James looks for any bruises or other tell-tale signs of physical abuse. That would involve Gary's parents actually caring enough about the boy to keep him by their side for any length of time, though.

Shaking his head, Gary waves one pizza-grease-drenched hand in dismissal. "No one's goin' to do anything to my folks that'll make anythin' better. I'm doin' quite well by myself."

"Oh?" James raises one eyebrow. "You've been attending school, then?"

Gary shrugs. "School'll say I've been there often enough t' keep my folks out o' trouble. Can't ask for more 'n that. I didn't come talk t' you t' get the third degree, though, detective. I wanted t' know why you're interested in these guys."

"They're disruptive. They're dangerous." James scowls at the curly-haired young man currently bouncing his way across the stage, the crowd laughing nervously at his antics.

"Why?" There's honest curiosity in the word, in the way Gary looks up at him.

"Because they're sowing discontent. Because they're giving people false hope and false expectations." James turns his scowl on those around him. "Because they're telling them the problems facing them are someone else's fault, not their own, and that someone else should fix it. Because they're going to start a riot one of these days, and I don't want to be one of the people cleaning up the bodies."

"Whoa." Gary stares toward the stage, an expression of awe on his face. "Really? They're managin' t' say all sorts of stuff like that?"

James places his hand over his eyes for a brief moment before drawing a deep, steadying breath. "Gary, _why_ exactly are you here?"

"Because there's free food." Gary shrugs, biting into a second slice of pizza that has appeared as if by magic. "And because they're funny t' watch, even if I don't understand much of what they're talkin' about. The blond one's so _serious_, and the guy up there's really fun to watch, and every time they come around people talk about it for a long time, so I thought it must be important."

James narrows his eyes, wishing once again that there was a legitimate way he could bring these boys in and impress upon them the danger of what they're doing. He's not surprised that they've been making waves, but he still doesn't like having Gary confirm it to him. "They're going to get people killed. They're going to cause trouble where it's not needed."

He doesn't know why he's certain of it, but he is certain. What these students are doing, no matter that they're doing it legally, is dangerous.

A snort of laughter turns into a cough as Gary chokes on his piece of pizza. "Detective, you know what this area's like. There's _always_ trouble here. They're not really bringin' anything new if they're bringin' trouble."

"They're making it organized. They're making it political, rather than the random acts of pointless violence that are always occurring here." Glancing over at the pizza table, James remembers the other little piece of evidence that condemns these college students in his mind. "By the way, do you know why they've been associating with your family?"

"My family?" Gary blinks, glancing over at the table. "Oh, Erin? I don' know. I haven't had a chance to talk to her yet. Given the way she's been eyein' that college kid standin' next to her, though, I'm guessin' it's to do with him." Gary narrows his eyes, giving said college student what would be a withering glare if it came from someone other than a dirty eleven-year-old. "Stupid. He ain't near good enough for her."

"Your family isn't involved with these students, are they?" Even as he makes the accusation James knows that it's foolishness. As much as he wants these idiotic young men to make a mistake, that's not the kind of mistake they're going to make. They're going to kill people. They're going to drive people to bloodshed. Petty theft, blackmail, fraud, that's not what these men are about.

Gary apparently agrees with him, as the child laughs before taking another bite of his pizza. Speaking around a mouthful of food, he shakes his head. "No, detective. These guys 'n' my family are about as far apart as they can get. If that guy didn't live next to 'em, I doubt Erin'd be involved with this. I'm kind o' surprised she is, even with him. Y'know what, detective? I think it's time I find out what's been goin' on in my sister's life. Good day to you, Detective James Santiago."

The child gives a brief wave before skittering off through the crowd, and James turns his full attention back to the students currently on stage and wandering the perimeter of the rally.

There's nothing he can do right now to stop them, but as soon as they give him an opportunity, he's going to end this madness before it gets out of hand.

XXX

Gary wends his way easily through the crowd, nicking another piece of pizza from one of the boxes before sidling towards his sister. He takes a moment to enjoy the food, letting his frustration with the detective fade before he approaches the only member of his family that he occasionally finds himself getting along with.

He doesn't understand Detective Santiago, and it annoys him. He's pretty good at predicting people, because it's an "important life skill" for him, to borrow words from James and those few teachers who seem to give a damn. He knows when to avoid his father. (Usually.) He knows when to avoid his mother. (Always.) He knows when someone's just asking to have their pockets divested of valuables. He knows when someone's watching and waiting for an excuse to hit him. He knows when cops are being cops, watching him, waiting for him to do something wrong so that they can take him in.

But he doesn't understand _this_ cop.

He's heard others talk about Santiago. He's heard their anger, their hatred, and he can understand some of it. Detective Santiago has sent more people to prison for longer periods of time than Gary's been alive, which is a frightening thought. He doesn't understand some of what people talk about—the bits about how someone with a last name of Santiago and skin so brown and hair so black shouldn't turn on his own kind so quick—but he understands that Santiago is dangerous.

He's _seen_ Santiago be dangerous. He's seen Santiago bust gangs so hard that they never came back. He knows some of his father's partners in crime have run up against Detective Santiago and drowned.

But Santiago hasn't been cruel to him. Santiago has taken him in to the station, yes, and Santiago has seen him do a little bit of time behind bars, but nothing terrible has happened to him when he's been with the detective. The worst thing James seems to want to do to him is _talk_ at him all the time, about how school is important and how Gary needs to start making better decisions.

As though he really has a lot of choice about how his life goes.

Taking another bite of pizza, Gary shrugs off his uncertainty and turns toward Erin. "Hey, sis."

Erin looks up at him in surprise, pulling her hand back from the college-boy's hand. "Gary?"

The college boy straightens, frowning down at Gary with a look of vaguely horrified curiosity that Gary's seen far too often. His tone is polite enough when he speaks, though, even if he's only echoing Erin. "Gary?"

"My little brother." Erin shrugs, filling up a plate with pizza and handing it over to Gary without even having to be asked. "My remaining sibling."

"I didn't know you had siblings." The college-boy hesitates, suddenly looking extremely uncomfortable. "And I'm sorry for your loss."

"'s all right." Erin shrugs off the man's words. "The youngest two didn't die, anyway. They were given up for adoption. Turns out there are lots o' people out there who want little boys."

That just seems to confuse the college boy further, and he stands silently in front of the table, his gaze tracking from Gary to Erin and back.

"Here." Erin places a hand on Gary's arm. "Let's go talk, catch up on sibling things, all right?"

Gary doesn't fight Erin leading him away from the college boy, simply waving to the man with a cheerful grin.

"Why are you here, Gary?" Erin turns him so that he's facing her squarely. "And where've you been for the last few days?"

"Around." Shrugging, Gary debates taking another bite of pizza and decides it's better to just save the plate for later. He's already pretty full, and pizza lasted fairly long even during the summer. "Has mom gotten over the broken glass yet?"

"She never remembers anythin' for longer 'n a day." Erin sighs, looking back at the college boy wistfully. "Just, if you're goin' to be around, don't say anything that'll get him upset. Please?"

"Why?" Gary narrows his eyes, craning around Erin to get a look at the object of their conversation. "He's weird, and he's teachin' you t' talk funny."

"No, I'm learnin'—_learning_—_remembering_ to talk right when I'm with them." Erin places a hand on each of his shoulders, leaning down so they're eye to eye. "Gary, please. This is important to me. This thing I have with them, I know it's silly and I know it doesn't mean anything, but—"

"But you're happy." Gary smiles, looking at the way his sister's eyes shine. Looking at the way the thin lines of her body have filled out, slightly, and maybe it isn't such a bad thing if she's hanging out with these guys. "You always told me not t' get involved with 'em, you know. Said they'd be gone in a few years at the most, that it wasn' worth it."

"I know." Erin glances back at her college-boy. "And it's still true. But even if it's just for a little bit, even if it's just a silly summer and it all falls apart… I'm glad I have this. I'm glad I have _him_. So please don't bring dad and all of that here. Please."

"I'm not the one that works with dad most often." It's silly that he needs to remind her of that. "I just do the occasional odd job for him. You're one of his go-to people."

"I…" Biting her lip, Erin stands slowly. "Yeah. I know."

"'s not a bad thing." Reaching out to touch her wrist, awkward, not sure exactly how this is supposed to go, Gary tries to think of the right words. "You havin' fun with the college boys, it's not a bad thing. They're interestin'. Everyone's talkin' about them, and what they're doin', and whether they're gonna actually change anythin'."

"I know." Erin's eyes move to the stage for a moment. "And I'm glad Mark helped me get involved with them."

"Mark, huh?" Gary looks over at the college-boy again. "Mark. He looks like a mark. Nice and easy to pick-pocket, that one. Not always very aware of his surroundin's. Does a lot of thinkin', I think."

"Gary." Erin gives him an exasperated look. "Don't."

"Isn't that what little brothers are 'sposed to do?" Grinning, Gary raises the plate of pizza. "Jus' like big sisses are supposed t' help feed little brothers."

"Are you goin' t' be comin' home?" Erin's fingers comb through his hair, pulling on a few tangled knots.

"Depends. Are you goin' t' be there, and which of our folks will be?"

Erin hesitates for a moment before sighing. "Come home tomorrow. I'll make sure it's safe."

As safe as it can be, she doesn't say and he doesn't clarify, because they both know it's true. "Sounds good. I'll see you then, sis."

Holding his plate close to him, he pulls away from Erin.

He makes one detour before leaving the rally. Appearing in front of Mark, he glares up at him with his best threatening expression. "If you hurt my sister, Mark, you're goin' t' regret it."

The look of mystified amazement on the college boy's face might not be the fear and horror that such a line should evoke, but they entertain Gary as he marches off, and that's really all that can be asked of the universe sometimes.


	14. Part Fourteen: A Meeting of Minds

_Part Fourteen: A Meeting of Minds_

_Are you really quite certain that this is safe?_

Joly's voice is quiet, concise, the man clearly doing everything in his power not to upset or infringe upon Jona.

That's kind of a losing battle, because Jona really hadn't intended or wanted to be sharing his mind and thoughts with a dead Frenchman when he woke up this morning, but the courtesy is appreciated.

_And I wish you'd all stop referring to us as dead Frenchmen._ Joly's mental voice speaks English with an accent—stronger whenever Jona pushes him away, because the man's borrowing from Jona's own knowledge of the language to speak it. _Yes, we are—were—from France, and yes, the general consensus does seem to be that we've been dead for going on two hundred years, but we did have names. We even have a group name, if you really need to refer to us en masse. We're Les Amis de l'ABC._

It's not the Frenchman part that upsets Joly, though. It's the dead part, because even though it's true and even though it's something he'd known could happen it still feels like a failure. How did it all go wrong so quickly? How did they fall so fast? Why hadn't the people come to their side as they expected?

Even underneath the disappointment there's a bitter, angry frustration that he could do nothing to save any of them. Doctors fought death. It was their purpose, their place, and to have been forced for the last few months to watch his friends die over and over again, helpless—

Jona pulls back sharply, closing his eyes and redrawing the partitions that separate Joly from himself. This isn't France. Their friends are alive. Now isn't the time to dwell on the nightmares.

_I know what you're called. I'm sorry._ Jona frowns as he directs the thoughts inward. He's fairly certain Joly could read all of his thoughts, if the man wanted, just as he could delve into the portion of his mind that is currently being used by Joly and learn all there is to learn about the revolutionary.

Experimenting throughout the afternoon has shown him that he much prefers it this way, though, with his thoughts being his own and Joly's thoughts being largely his own and the two meeting only when they wish it to happen. It doesn't seem to interfere with Joly's ability to experience the world through Jona's senses, either, and that seems to be quite enough for the dea—…for Joly to be satisfied for the moment.

_My original query still stands, though._ Joly's fear and uncertainty leeches across into Jona's mind, and he feels his eyes dart uncomfortably around the dashboard of the car before peering out at the traffic outside the parking garage. _Are you certain this is safe?_

_No._ Jona sighs, trying and failing to keep his mind from filling with all that he knows about car accidents. _It's decidedly unsafe, but it's the standard mode of transportation, and it's necessary given the distances commonly covered in our society. Plus all the mass transportation that we could conceivably use is just as dangerous and gives us much less control over our own safety._

_Ah._ Joly sighs, and Jona has a distinctly uncomfortable moment as his mind is filled with images of cart crashes and people thrown from horses. He's not sure if it's him or Joly who compares the cart crashes to the car-crash victim images that he has, but between the two it's definitely more blood than Jona really needs to be seeing right now. _I suppose all transportation is dangerous, no matter the time period._

"Jona?" Eric's voice is quiet and gentle. "Are you all right?"

"More or less." Giving Eric a shrug and a sheepish smile, Jona finally manages to turn the key in the ignition. "Just reassuring Joly that my car has a very good safety test rating."

"I was wondering if something like that was happening." Eric sits straight and calm in the passenger's seat, not seeming bothered at all by his blood-stained shirt. His eyes don't dart around, not like Jona's gotten used to seeing Con's or Grant's do when their ghosts are near the front of their thoughts, and Jona can't tell if that's because Enjolras is simply calmer than their ghosts or because of how Eric and Enjolras are getting along. Or, rather, failing to get along.

Eric gestures toward the steering wheel. "Did you want me to drive?"

"No." Jona's hands tighten on the wheel. "I can drive. Part of how I got him to calm down is reassuring him that driving gives us at least a little bit of control over whether we live or die." Jona frowns, glancing over at Eric. "Besides, Con told me you can be a very scary driver."

"The only time I scared Con with my driving was when he asked me to show him what, exactly, was the difference between normal, defensive and aggressive driving, and why I thought taking classes on stunt driving could possibly be important." A slight smile pulls at the corners of Eric's mouth. "I'm quite capable of driving like a normal sane person when there's no need for me to drive otherwise."

"Uh huh." Jona turns the key in the ignition, his foot hard on the brake pedal. He tries to ignore the feeling of alien thoughts sliding across his, Joly trying to familiarize himself with the car and its basic functions before they start driving. "I think I'd still prefer to drive. Believe me, the last thing Joly's going to do is anything that's going to get us hurt."

"He was a medical student, too, right?" Eric's eyes narrow slightly, his right hand rising to rub absently at his temple as though he's starting to get a headache.

Jona throws the car into reverse to keep himself from simply sitting and clenching his jaw tighter as he watches Eric. Worrying about Eric is not going to make anything easier on either of them. Getting things done—getting him home like Con had asked him to, so Eric can shower and change before the rest of them show up—is something that Eric will appreciate much more. "Yeah. Joly was studying to be a doctor, too. You're remembering things pretty quickly, aren't you?"

"I'm not sure remembering is the right word." Eric's gaze stays fixed directly in front of him, on the street, but Jona's not certain that he's actually seeing anything there. "Enjolras knows them. He sees you—my version of you—and he thinks he knows which of his friends you correspond to. He's…"

Eric pauses, expression just slightly lost, eyes still fixed on the road ahead.

"Eric?" Jona forces his eyes to stay on the road, on the potential danger out there, rather than allowing his gaze to stay locked on Eric. Getting them into an accident will not help anything at this point.

It helps that Joly's still getting used to his world, still awestruck and overwhelmed by all that's changed, by the cars and wires and the sheer size of some of the buildings they pass. It's hard to focus on anything when Joly's attention is being drawn five different ways every time they go another block.

"He's happy." Eric's voice is soft, contemplative, though his hands are balled into fists. "He's _ecstatic_, Jona. And information… slips, from him to me, any time we're not being careful, so each time he recognizes one of you I get to know a little bit about who he thinks you were. Assuming I'm understanding this properly and you, Conlan and Grant also have dead revolutionaries sharing your minds? Because I would be willing to accept the hypothesis that I've gone completely insane at the moment."

"If you're crazy, we all are." Jona means to be reassuring. He means it to be a moment of levity. Instead the words come out flat, full of the frustration and fear of the last day.

"Despite there not being another group of people I'd rather be crazy with, the majority of the evidence seems to point to ghosts being the more probable option." Another slight smile turns the corners of Eric's mouth up. "Conlan must be going mad, trying to come up with other reasonable explanations."

"It kind of took all three of us a while to come to terms with it. And with them." Jona shrugs, sheepish. "I wasn't exactly expecting anything like Joly when Grant woke me up this morning. I thought I was going to have a heart attack when Joly started talking to me—hyperventilating, dizzy, tachycardia, though thankfully none of the pain that usually comes with a heart attack. And watching Con debate fiercely with himself in two different languages, while fascinating, is not an experience that I'd ever like to repeat."

"And then me." Eric pauses. "I'm sorry, Jona. I handled the entire incident about as poorly as I could have."

"Don't." Clenching his fingers tight around the wheel, Jona shakes his head. "Don't apologize for that. If you do, I'm going to apologize for being absolutely useless while you were hurting."

Eric tilts his head slightly, surprise written on his face. "You weren't useless."

"Weren't we?" A bitter smile works its way out of the day's frustrations and onto Jona's face. "You're bleeding and maybe dying and all I can think to do is warn Con about blood-borne pathogens. I was pretty much the most useless would-be doctor there could be."

"You didn't know what was happening, and even if you did, there was nothing you could do about it. No training anywhere would have prepared you for what happened or given you a better idea of what to do."

"It doesn't matter." Jona finds Joly agreeing with him, their emotions mirroring each other. "A doctor should do _something_. A doctor should be in charge. Even if we're improvising, it's on us to _improvise_. Not to sit back and wring our hands in confusion."

Eric leans his head back against the seat rest, his eyes closing. "What would you have changed about what you did?"

"I don't know!" The words come out ragged, and Jona finds himself breathing too quickly once more. "Something. Anything. I could have talked to you, I could have… I don't know, Eric. I could have stepped in earlier, when Con and you were arguing, and prevented the whole thing from happening."

"No. Con and I are adults, fully capable of stopping an argument on our own." Eric doesn't open his eyes, but his voice is strong, sure. "You helped Con as much as you could. You held me. Con talked to me. Between the two of you, I managed not to do something incredibly idiotic."

"It wasn't—"

"It was." The first hint of exhaustion creeps into Eric's voice as he opens his eyes. "It was idiotic, and it was cruel, and I try not to be either. I don't really want to talk about the why of it, not right now, but I do owe you an apology for what happened. And I want you to stop worrying about it, if you are."

Jona doesn't say anything, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. His head tells him Eric's right; his heart tells him that he should have been able to do more.

"The point of remembering and worrying over an event is to find a way to move forward that will avoid the mistakes of the past." Eric's voice is firm and sure again, the voice of authority, the voice Jona's used to following. "No mistake was made. It's a situation that's unlikely to be repeated in the future. We learned a great deal from the incident about what _not_ to do in the future. Nothing more is going to be gained from fretting over it. Let it go, Jona. We have much larger problems that we're going to be talking about very shortly."

_He's certainly right about that._ Joly's voice is calm, now, calmer than Jona's. _Learn and then move on. Do what you can, and don't let death eat your soul before it's time, before your own body's failing._

Joly saw death. Joly saw _so much_ death in his time, women and children and men, hypothermia and cholera and festering wounds, diabetes by other names, cancer, seizures, rickets, starvation, and there was so little he could do about it. No antibiotics, no understanding of germ theory, and Jona finds himself gasping in a sharp breath that sounds far too much like a sob.

_It's better now?_ There's curiosity in Joly's voice, curiosity and a questioning hopefulness that makes Jona love this alternate version of him a little more. _No, don't try to show me all of it, but it's good to know it's better now. It's good to know we can do more, but I'm certain there are still battles we can't win, things we don't know._

"We're going to win this battle, though." Jona's hands are tight on the steering wheel, and he blinks his vision clear of tears. "We're going to figure out what the hell this shadow-thing is and kill it before it does whatever it's trying to do. We're all going to make it through this in one piece."

Eric's hand rests on his shoulder for a moment, and when Jona glances over he can see a small, determined smile on Eric's face. "I couldn't have said it better myself, Jona."

XXX

Eric allows himself the luxury of a second shower in one day, though he could probably get himself cleaned up without it. Partly it's because Con ordered him to shower, and the guilt he feels over what happened makes him want to complete anything simple that Con asks of him.

Mostly he takes the shower because his head is pounding and his chest is aching, and though the hot water doesn't make either sensation completely fade away it's at least a nice distraction.

Everything in the bathroom is a nice distraction, though, as Enjolras tries and fails to process the entirety of Eric's world without borrowing from Eric's knowledge.

Stepping out of the shower, Eric sighs. He and Enjolras need to talk, and they need to talk before the others come and they have to try to make logical sense out of this entire mess.

Hopefully this discussion will go better than the last one. He's fairly certain Con would break down the bathroom door if he thought he needed to, but Eric's very determined that he's not going to be any more of a burden to his friend than he already has been.

Drying himself off and shrugging into his clean clothes, he wipes the steam off the mirror and plants himself in front of it. He'll leave his hair down, free from its usual ponytail. The long, damp blond strands framing his face makes him look a little bit more like Enjolras has, those few times he's seen the other man in the dreams.

"I know you're there. I know you're listening." Eric can feel the other man's attention, the tentative rifling through his thoughts as the _other_ attempts to understand what's being said to him.

Keeping his gut reaction of fear, of violation, of anger at the invasion of his thoughts in check, he attempts to at least give Enjolras access to English. He's not certain how successful he is at partitioning the language from the rest of his memories, his knowledge, his _self_, but Enjolras doesn't seem too overwhelmed and the feeling of confusion from the man abruptly turns to one of wary comprehension.

"Good. If we don't understand each other, we're not going to get very far with this." He's stalling, and he knows it. He can't afford to wait too long, though. Just because Con insisted Eric leave the clean-up to Con and Cori doesn't mean he's going to have very long before the rest of the Independents come knocking. "So, we're going to get to know each other, and we're going to do it very quickly."

He doesn't want to do it. He doesn't want to give up control over his body, not when it was wrested from him earlier without any regards to his desires. But it's something they _can_ do, and he needs to learn how to do it voluntarily.

It helps, having the mirror in front of them. It means he can look at his reflection and interpret _that_ as Enjolras, give himself a bit of distance still from the other man. It means he doesn't panic as the man in the mirror's lips move, one eyebrow arches, and he says, in heavily accented English, "How?"

He won't allow his body to shudder in relief as Enjolras retreats, returning control of their body to him. "By figuring out what's real and what isn't. I'm real—or at least that's the basic premise we're going with. You, apparently, are real. The dreams…?"

Enjolras' mouth turns down, his eyes lowering, the expression of someone who's being forced to face something painful. "Real. Somewhat. The dreams have been a… twisting of events that happened. There was a barricade that I commanded in 1832 in Paris. It fell. Many good men died that day, including my friends."

Con. Combeferre.

Jona. Joly.

The others will also fit. Eric knows it, even as his and Enjolras' memories match up in rapid succession, and he can feel Enjolras' overwhelming relief at having them all _alive_ sweep through his body again.

"Your friends. My friends." He needs to speak in complete sentences again. He needs to _think_ clearly again, and he tries to gently shift Enjolras' desperate affection and sorrow away from him. "They're the same?"

"The same, or at least similar enough that I recognize something in all of them." Enjolras reins in his emotions as soon as he has control of their body again, and Eric finds himself staring into grave blue eyes. "Combeferre—your Con—seemed to have some idea of what is going on. That you and I are the same person? That he and Combeferre are the same person?"

"Reincarnation, of some sort." Eric pushes his hair back with one hand, away from his face. "We'll let him focus on that, if he's got an idea what's going on. Back to what's real and what's not. If we're both real, and the dreams are something that happened—"

"Not all of them." Enjolras' tone is musing. "The worst of them, but not all of them. The one last night, with the Amis dying at the hands of faceless workers… that was a true nightmare, nothing based on fact. The worst the workers ever did to us was fail to come to our side en masse, and even then there were many who fought and died bravely with us."

"Some of the nightmares, but not all…" It's hard, thinking back on the nightmares. They are Enjolras', even more clouded than Eric's memory of normal dreams is. But Eric has been there for each one, watching, helpless, listening to the shadow's taunts… "You had stopped responding like it wanted. You had stopped trying to change things at the barricade."

"What happened at the barricade is done and finished. We did the best that we could, and no life was spent in vain." It's a statement that's both true and not true. It's what Enjolras believed, once, and what he still tries to believe, but four months of torture has made its mark on Enjolras as indelibly as on Eric.

"I don't know what happened at the barricade." Eric draws a deep breath, closing his eyes, blocking out the mirror-image. "I need time to think about all of that, to process what happened and what you did when we're not being tormented by a monster made out of shadows."

"It's real, as well." Enjolras' eyes narrow, and Eric finds himself fascinated by how incredibly dangerous and feral the man can look. _He _can look, he supposes, but he's never been on the receiving end of a look full of so much hatred and anger before.

He's not sure he's ever felt so much hatred and fury before. Anger he's felt, oh yes, frequently, especially growing up, but it's hard for him to hate people. Possible, because some people seemed to revel in cruelty and being intentionally obtuse about how much damage they were causing to others, but in general he found himself hating the actions and the system but not the individuals caught up in it.

Enjolras hates this shadow-creature, though, to the depths of his soul. It is evil. It has tortured him for months. It has reveled in the death and pain that the failed revolution brought, in the agony of grief and the despair of helplessness.

It needs to die.

Eric finds himself in complete agreement with the dead man on that score, at least. "Do you have any idea what it is?"

"No." Frustration turns the word to a growl, thickens Enjolras' accent. "I tended not to pay much attention to God or gods and the like. I had other things that occupied my time."

"That makes two of us, then. We'll figure it out, though." Eric lifts a hand, touches the mirror, and even though he knows it's just his reflection and not actually connected to Enjolras he can almost feel a ghost of a return pressure through the glass. "You were right. There's no crime that could justify what's been done to you. No one, no matter what they've done, deserves to suffer like you've been suffering—like _we've_ been suffering. And if it's been hurting the others like it has us…"

"We will keep them safe, Eric." There is fire in Enjolras' gaze, a sheer determination and inability to quit that Eric recognizes.

It's an emotion he's felt often enough, and he smiles as he picks up his hair tie and pulls his hair back into its usual ponytail. "We'll keep them safe. We'll keep them alive."

He winces as the words sting Enjolras, just slightly. That hadn't been his intention, and he sends a silent apology to Enjolras as he reaches for the bathroom door.

He needs to find out what really happened in Paris in 1832. He needs to determine what, if anything, Enjolras did wrong. He needs to decide how much of his anger towards and disgust with the dead revolutionary is actually valid and how much is the shadow toying with his emotions, using him to hurt Enjolras in ways that it can't.

He needs to keep Enjolras separate from him, at least a bit, because it's terrifying and viscerally _wrong_ to have his thoughts and emotions and body being usurped by another, even if that other is deeply connected to him.

He needs to keep doing his work, because the election's in two months and it's still just as important as ever and won't wait just because there are shadow-monsters hunting his soul and the dead man he maybe, possibly, used to be.

But first he needs to talk with his friends and help them all figure out what's going on and keep anyone from doing anything stupid like he did.

At least the prospect of seeing them all eases Enjolras' discontent.

Pausing with his hand on the door, Eric allows himself to sigh just once more.

Learning to live with a dead centuries-old revolutionary in his head is going to take a lot of getting used to.

XXX

Cori claims the box of pad thai and returns to sit cross-legged in his spot at Eric's left hand side.

He doesn't know when they started sitting like this, Eric in the center, Con on his right, Cori on his left, the others arranging themselves around the table—or, in the case, on the living room floor—however they saw fit. It's something that just seemed natural, that just _happened_, just like Eric being the leader and Con being his second just happened.

It's not something that Cori's questioned before, and he doesn't like that his mind is questioning it now. He hasn't liked much of today, actually, from the time he got back to his apartment and found it Con-less to the time spent watching Eric bleed on the ground to improvising his way through the rally. Spending the evening sober and talking with Eric doesn't have the appeal today that it usually would, but he tries not to grumble too much as he digs into his second dinner of the evening. He doesn't have the faintest idea what Eric would need to talk to them about that requires all of the Independents to be there, but if Eric needs them, and especially if he's springing for food, Cori's there.

(_Really? No idea what he wants to talk about?_)

The soft, amused voice is barely discernable. If he hadn't been hearing it more frequently over the last few hours, he probably wouldn't even have noticed it. He _has_ been hearing it, though, and it takes all his will-power not to tense up and look around. He knows without looking that there's no one there, just as there hadn't been anyone there four weeks ago when he first started hearing the voice, just like there hadn't been anyone there after the rally when it started making itself known again.

(_I am most definitely a he, if we must use pronouns to refer to me._)

No, he—_it's_ not. It's a little voice that shouldn't exist, a figment of his imagination, an extremely delayed response to a concussion, and if it doesn't go away then he'll have to find a way to bring it up to his doctor without making himself look schizophrenic.

(_You know they were speaking French and we could understand it._)

No, they weren't. Con speaking French would be fine—Con had too many weird skills for knowledge of a foreign language to even register on the list—but Cori knows that Eric doesn't speak it. Eric speaks Spanish, fluently, as well as a spattering of Portuguese and, bizarrely, Mandarin Chinese. French is not among his talents, and it is not among Cori's talents, and he is not going to talk to the strange little voice any more.

(_We'll see._)

At least his hallucinations are friendly. It seems more entertained than annoyed by his refusal to acknowledge it. Hopefully it will stay that way.

Actually, no, hopefully it will go away.

But being a nice house-guest in his head is a good second-best option.

"Since everyone's here who's going to be able to make it, we should get this started." Eric speaks quietly, but his voice immediately freezes all other conversation in the room, bringing all of the Independent's eyes to him.

Cori quickly scans the room, noting who's missing and who's present that isn't normally. Finny's gone, still, and Cori finds himself missing the man and hoping he'll be back soon. Maria sits between Jona and Lyle, sharing a pint of pork lo mein with the two. Mark sits between Jona and Barry, staring down shyly at a plate of fried rice. Erin's missing, having told Cori that she had to meet other friends. Grant's also absent, and Cori frowns in confusion.

Given that this is also Grant's apartment, he really shouldn't be absent for this. "Uh, Eric? Do you know—"

"Specifically, no. Generally, I suspect he's drinking." Eric frowns, but there's more sorrow and… is that _guilt_?

Cori blinks in surprise. Eric doesn't do guilt, especially not about Grant and his occasional drinking binges. Anger, frustration, disappointment, yes, but not guilt. "Oh. All right. You're sure everything's fine?"

"I sent him a text telling him not to do anything foolish. I think he'll listen to me." Eric hesitates, looking torn. "The group needs to talk about and understand what's going on. If he's not back by the time we're done here, I'll go find him."

"Or one of us can." Shrugging, Cori tries to dismiss the worry he feels for Grant. Given what had happened with Eric, Cori had expected to find Grant glued to his side. If he's not…

"We'll start with some questions that might strike you as odd. Just try to answer truthfully." One of Eric's fingers taps gently against the floor, any sound that might be generated eaten by the carpeting. "How many of you have been having nightmares for the last few months?"

Jona and Con immediately raise their hands, as does Eric. Lyle blinks at Jona briefly before raising his, as well. After a few seconds of Jona and Lyle staring at him Barry raises his hand, too, looking rather sheepish. Mark's hand tentatively rises, stopping at shoulder-height as though he's afraid someone might actually notice. That leaves Maria and Cori with their hands down.

After a few seconds of Con staring at him meaningfully, Cori raises his hand, too. It's really not fair. Con hasn't been around the last two—no, three times that Cori's had nightmares. Granted, the man who had been around for those nightmares isn't going to be anymore, largely because he enjoys sleeping and not hearing his boyfriend scream like a madman every other night, so maybe it's best to just meekly raise his hand and admit that Con is right.

"All of us." Eric murmurs the words, but there's a steel undercurrent to his voice, a promise of retribution that Cori doesn't understand. "All except for you, Maria. Interesting. When did it start for everyone?"

A quiet susurrus fills the room, but Cori can make out that May seems to be the general consensus.

"All around the same time, then. Around the time we found each other." Eric's gaze travels slowly around their circle. "I wish there was a gentle, pleasant way to do this. Given that I can't think of one, I'm just going to try to get it over with as quickly as possible for all of you. I promise that none of you are crazy, that we're safe here, and that fighting with the people I'm going to call is only going to make things worse. My bleeding on the ground earlier was due to fighting with mine, so believe me, it's not worth it."

(_Oh, this should be interesting._)

"What do you—"

"You've all been dreaming about a war." Eric's voice rises in volume, filling the room without any effort. "You've been dreaming about Paris in the nineteenth century, and fighting on a barricade there. And you've been dreaming about a shadow, a monster that stalks you and torments you and does everything in its power to hurt you."

_Now are you willing to talk to me?_

The voice isn't a whisper anymore. It's not something that he can push aside or brush off or pretend isn't there. It's a person, a man, a man he's _been_, a man whose dreams he's seen, and the world seems to tilt crazily as he attempts to assimilate a lifetime's worth of experience and knowledge in the space of a few seconds.

A brief lifetime, admittedly, and at least Courfeyrac can appreciate a dark sense of humor as they both chuckle at the poor joke. If the chuckle sounds slightly maniacal, slightly pained, well, what else do people expect?

_It's all right, Cori._ Courfeyrac's voice is gentle, now, concerned. _I'm not going to hurt you. I promise._

"Good. That's good. Hurting is generally a bad thing." Cori raises his head from his hands, gazing blurrily around the circle.

Con has crossed to Cori's side and has an arm around his shoulders; Eric's hand is on his knee, though Eric's eyes are also scanning hurriedly around the circle. Maria has Lyle wrapped in a tight embrace; Jona has Barry by both elbows. Only Mark has no one there, the man curled in on himself, his head bowed and his arms wrapped around his chest as though keeping himself together.

"Mark?" Cori finds his vision stabilizing, his thoughts clearing, and he stumbles to his feet and toward Mark. "Hey, Mark. It's all right."

"No." Mark's voice is ragged, his eyes wide and haunted as he slowly raises his head. "No, it's really not."

"It is." Eric's voice is quiet again but full of certainty. "And that holds true for all of us. I know it's frightening, and I can't say that we understand everything that's going on. But the current working theory is that we're reincarnated versions of the men that you're currently hearing inside your heads. We'll—"

"Name us." There's a wild, frightened glint to Mark's expression that Cori hasn't seen before. "Eric, name us."

Eric hesitates a bare moment. When he speaks, it's in French, his accent perfect, and Cori knows, somehow, that it isn't Eric in control anymore.

"My name is Enjolras." Enjolras turns to Con. "Con is Combeferre. If I'm not mistaken, Cori is Courfeyrac."

_May I?_ The eagerness, the _exuberance_ in Courfeyrac's thoughts as he watches Enjolras is infectious.

Smiling, Cori shrugs. "Why not?"

Courfeyrac doesn't need a second invitation. "Enjolras. It is incredibly good to see and hear you, my friend."

It's odd, hearing his voice, knowing that the words aren't his. It's odder still to be able to understand Courfeyrac's French, but it's also kind of cool. Who knew that reincarnation gave you Matrix learning powers?

"It's good to see you, as well." Enjolras _smiles_, an expression that seems far more open than Courfeyrac's used to seeing from him. He freezes immediately after, a furrow appearing between his brows, and Courfeyrac can tell that his attention is suddenly elsewhere. After a second his gaze re-focuses. "And Cori? Is he handling this well?"

Courfeyrac steps aside, simply, easily, and Cori blinks for a second as he finds his tongue. "I'm fine. A bit weirded out, and this is going to take a _lot_ of getting used to, but overall I'm fine."

"Everyone else." Mark's voice is almost pleading. "Enjolras, name the rest."

"Jona is Joly."

Jona gives a small salute. "Oui."

Enjolras smiles and looks at the man that Jona's arm is still around. "Barry is Bahorel."

"Crazy. This is crazy." Barry shakes his head, his eyes glazing over for a minute before he continues in French. "Crazy, but better than some of the alternatives I've been thinking about. We're really here, aren't we? We're really back."

"We're back." The fondness in Enjolras'—_Eric's_—hell, this is going to get confusing… the fondness in their expression is clear and overwhelming. "We're together."

"Et moi, Enjolras?" Lyle straightens, though he keeps a tight hold on a confused Maria's hand.

There's no doubt in Courfeyrac's mind, and thus no doubt in Cori's, about who Lyle is.

There's also apparently no doubt in Enjolras', as he answers immediately. "Welcome back, Laisgle. Who else would be so close to Joly?"

"Oh, no." Mark's face is pale, his hands shaking, but it's clear that he understands what's being said despite all of them speaking in French. "Oh, no."

_Let me talk to him._ Cori switches place with Courfeyrac easily, moving to kneel down by Mark's side and placing a hand on his shoulder. "Mark, come on. It's all right."

"No." Mark shakes his head. "It's _not_ all right. Because I'm Marius, and he just named half of the members of Les Amis, and that means…"

"It's fine, Mark." Cori tightens his hand on Mark's shoulder. "I actually think it's kind of cool. I—"

"You're Courfeyrac. He's Enjolras. This is Les Miserables." Mark slumps back, shaking his head. "And that means that you're all going to die."


	15. Part Fifteen: Defining the Problem

**Author's Note:** For this and the next chapter, re-reading the dream sequence in chapter 10 may help make things clearer. Thanks again to everyone who reviews! I really, really appreciate it.

_Part Fifteen: Defining the Problem_

"_No._" Maria's voice shakes, even on that simple word, and she tightens her hold on Lyle. "No, you don't get to say things like that. There is not going to be anybody dying anywhere. What the hell is going on? And the next person who speaks in something other than English is going to regret it, just so we're clear."

"It's all right, Maria." Jona's arms wrap around her stomach, pull her tight against him. Since she's still got a death-grip on Lyle, that means he gets pulled right along into the embrace.

It's nice. It's comfortable, and for a moment she just allows herself to enjoy being between her two men. Her heart rate slows back down to something approaching normal, and she stops feeling quite so much like everything's spiraling out of control.

That doesn't get any of them off the hook, though. "What, exactly, is all right? I have no idea what's going on, and you guys have been _scaring_ me."

"I really don't have much of an idea about what's going on, either." Lyle smiles, shrugging. "But the gist of it seems to be that there is currently a man named Laigle… or Lesgle… or Bossuet… actually, he's got a lot of nicknames… anyway, the gist of it seems to be that I have a French-speaking man from 1832 in my head at the moment. And so do the others. Not the same one. One for each of us."

Maria stares around the circle. Barry nods; Cori shrugs and grins; Mark has his head buried in his hands again; Conlan studies his fingers as though they'll give him the answers; and Eric stares right back at her, his blue eyes just as deathly serious as they normally are. Since he's the one who currently seems to have the best handle on this, she directs her scorn towards him. "You've got to be kidding me."

"In a way I wish I was." Eric looks almost apologetic as his eyes scan the circle. "But this is what we're dealing with. This is where the nightmares have been coming from."

"This is crazy." Maria finds her voice heating as she makes the accusation. It's not fair to yell at Eric, she knows, but he's currently the best target she has for her fear and her uncertainty. "This is like suicide-cult levels of crazy. I didn't think you were the kind of person who went in for that kind of thing. And then to have Mark say that you're all going to die—"

"What's Les Miserables?" Cori has one hand on Mark's shoulder again, drawing the man's attention back to him.

Drawing all of their attention to him, cutting off her angry rant mid-stream and comforting Mark at the same time, and Maria finds her anger fading away. These men wouldn't hurt Jona and Lyle, not ever, which means that she can come up with no reasonable explanation for what's going on.

In the absence of reasonable explanations, she supposes they'll have to let the unreasonable ones have some credibility.

Cori waits for Mark to acknowledge him with a brief glance, staying quiet at the young man's side. When Mark doesn't answer him, he touches the other man's shoulder again and simply adds another question. "And why does this Les Miserables mean that we're all going to die?"

"It's a story—a piece of historical fiction. It's a book and play and a whole bunch of other stuff." Mark raises his head slowly, his expression haunted and sad. "It's been one of my favorites since I was twelve and saw the musical. It's about a man who stole to feed his family and ended up in prison for nineteen years and the cop who hunts him after he breaks parole."

Cori's eyebrows draw together. "And what does that have to do with us?"

"Well, that's the main protagonist, but there are a lot of people he meets. It's a really long story—a really complicated story, but some of the people he meets are Les Amis de l'ABC, a group of young revolutionaries looking to establish a Republic and bring some equality among the social classes. They stage a rebellion against the government." Mark closes his eyes again, his voice falling to a whisper. "They all die."

"It doesn't mean we'll die." Conlan's voice is firm and determined as he raises his gaze. "This is reincarnation. It's not an exact repetition of what came before."

Mark's eyes open slowly, but that haunted, hurt look on his face remains. When he speaks it's in French, and tears collect in his eyes, though he blinks them away before they fall.

One hand on Jona, one on Lyle, Maria decides that following up on her threat to hurt the next person who spoke in French would probably make her a terrible person. "What did he say?"

"He said 'I don't want to watch you die again'." Jona's hand tightens around hers. "'Without Cosette, I don't think I could stand it.'."

"Nobody is going to die." Eric's voice rings through the apartment again, determined, authoritative. "I know this is difficult, but we need to approach this like we have everything else. We need to look at what's been happening and what we can do to try to protect ourselves and those around us. I don't know exactly what happened in 1832, or how accurate the story you've seen is, Mark. But we are not the men who died that day, and we're not going to die this time."

"We are." Con looks at Eric with concern, a concern that quickly changes to exasperation. "Not the going to die part, don't look at me that way, but we _are_ the men who died on the barricades. It's why they can recognize their friends in us."

"You said before that you have a theory about it." Eric leans back, and Maria can see him visibly forcing himself to relax. "Explain."

"It's just a theory, because the data set that we have is extremely small and also extremely biased and there's really no paradigm that I could work within to—"

"Con." Cori manages to make fondly exasperated into an art form. "Tell us what you thinks going on. Nobody here is going to execute you if your very first reincarnation theory turns out to be not exactly right."

"We're the same person." Con's voice takes on a quiet, contemplative tone, his expression eager. "We aren't exactly the same. We couldn't be. The standard theory is that a person is shaped by their environment and by their genetics. Given that what we're experiencing seems to be some form of reincarnation, we can add a third variable to that: a soul. So we're shaped by our genetics, our environment, and our soul. In my hypothesis for what's happening with us the soul is the same between then and now. However we've come to be here—be it by deity or chance or something else—the genetics seem to be similar. Eric doesn't look exactly like Enjolras did, but he's still blond-haired, blue-eyed, slight, more to the androgynous than the masculine side of things. I don't look exactly like Combeferre, but the same similarities hold. Combeferre and I have actually considered that perhaps there's something in a particular build that attracts a particular soul—"

"Con." Cori cuts him off again. "No getting distracted until the rest of us are enough on the same page to argue with you."

"Right. Sorry." Conlan adjusts his glasses before continuing. "So, the genetics and the soul are roughly the same. The environment, however, is very different. France in 1832 is not America now. So, two out of three variables are the same or close enough to the same, but the third isn't. This results in two minds—one from then, based on the experiences that they had, and one from now, based on the experiences that we had."

"That's not how reincarnation's supposed to work, though, is it?" Lyle's voice is far more curious and far less freaked out than Maria feels it should be. "I mean, don't people normally just remember being another person when they claim they're having past-life things? Do they normally suddenly have the power to speak French and make proclamations about 1830's French laws?"

"Not that a very brief research stint has shown." Spreading his hands out in a gesture of helplessness, Con shakes his head. "But since we've only been researching this for about three hours, and trying to separate people who may have experienced something like us from people who are describing religious experiences that may or may not be true from people who are just looking for attention or role-playing…"

"It's going to be just about impossible." The expression of dismay on Cori's face is not reassuring. "I dated a therian once. He talked about how hard it was sorting through stories and trying to find ones you believed. I may owe him an apology. Suddenly the idea that he was a fox in a previous life doesn't seem quite so far-fetched. And I should really have been more sympathetic when he was complaining about people role-playing and the like making it hard to find others who experienced something similar to him."

Silence descends over the small group as everyone stares at Cori. Maria finds that her gut reaction to laugh at anyone who thinks they might have a fox's soul doesn't seem quite so kind when her boys are telling her that they have the souls of men from 1832. And can speak the language to prove it.

Eric's the one who finally breaks the silence. "While I'm certain your boyfriend was very foxy, Cori, I'm not sure that helps us at all. We can work on finding other people who have experienced anything remotely similar to this later, though. Back to what we do know. We seem to have been revolutionary leaders in 1832 France. We've all been dreaming about the battle where we died."

Everyone stiffens, the smiles that had appeared at Eric's awful pun disappearing again.

"They aren't just reliving the events, though." Eric's voice is certain, but he still waits for the others to nod in silent acquiescence before continuing. "There's a monster in the dreams. It's a creature made of shadow, a creature with red eyes, and it taunts us as we die."

"It tries to drive a wedge between us and them." Cori places a hand to his chest, his expression suddenly pensive. "It doesn't just show us the barricades, though it does love them. Or at least it hasn't for me. It invents situations, calls on the differences between us and them to get us to fight."

"You've fought with Courfeyrac?" Eric manages to look both dismayed and oddly relieved as he asks the question.

"In the dreams, yeah." Cori shudders. "That… thing, that creature, it was tormenting Courfeyrac about being attracted to the rest of the Amis. Which he wasn't, for the record, though I've got to say that you've always been a fine-looking bunch of guys. It was using me and my sexuality against him, and it… it goaded him into attacking me. He stopped almost as soon as he started, because it hurt like pretty much nothing else that's ever happened to us, and he felt awful about it, but… yeah."

"Attacking or fighting with our previous versions is definitely not a good idea." Con very carefully doesn't look at Eric as he speaks, his eyes instead watching the rest of them. "If Combeferre and I are right, trying to separate yourself from them is trying to tear your own soul apart. I don't know what, exactly, that would do to us, but I doubt it would be anything good."

"And it hurts your body." A soft, sad smile graces Eric's lips as he makes the quiet addition to Con's speech. "Enjolras and I had a… disagreement about who should be in control of this body. That's what caused the incident right before the rally."

"You and Enjolras?" Lyle sits up a little straighter, though Maria refuses to let him pull away from her. She needs her hands on him right now, damn it, and she's not going to feel bad about that. Especially when his normally-sane friends are talking about the possibility of them accidentally tearing their souls in half. "Why? You're usually pretty calm about things, Eric. Out of all of us, I'd expect you to handle this without much fuss."

For a moment Maria thinks Eric isn't going to respond. Then he looks down, and she suddenly sees the exhaustion slumping his shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes. "How often have all of you been having the dreams?"

Cori tilts his head before resting it on his knees. "The bad ones? The ones with the shadow in them? Every other day or so. I've dreamt about being Courfeyrac without the shadow there, too, but there's a different feel to the ones with the shadow in them."

Jona nods. "The ones with the shadow feel… sharper. They feel more real, more dangerous… more painful, though that could just be that it's trying to make things more painful for us. God, I still don't know if this makes me feel better or worse than just thinking I'm having paranoia dreams."

"Better." Lyle reaches around Maria to squeeze Jona's hand. "It's definitely better to have an answer than to be wondering, even if it's only part of an answer. As for how often I've been dreaming… every third or fourth day. What about you, Jona?"

"Every third or fourth day sounds right." Jona keeps hold of one of Maria's hands and one of Lyle's. Apparently finding out about dying in the French Revolution or whenever 1832 was and being reincarnated trumped any fears her boys have about being outed as poly to their friends. "What about you, Mark?"

"Every few days." Mark shakes his head. "I haven't been keeping track. I thought it was all just due to watching the musical again. Con?"

"Every other day or so. Sometimes less frequently, like at the beginning of the month, but they've been getting worse." Con turns to Eric after speaking. "And you?"

"Every night." Eric shrugs, as though it doesn't matter. "Sometimes two or three times a night, those times I manage to get back to sleep."

"Jesus, Eric…" Cori's voice is soft. "No wonder you've looked like hell. I can't even imagine… why didn't you tell us?"

"Tell you what?" Pale eyebrows raised, Eric looks between Con and Cori. "Interrupt one of our meetings to tell you that I'd been having nightmares? To tell you that I'd been dreaming about being a man who got all his friends killed on a barricade in Paris two hundred years ago? It sounds… foolish."

"You didn't get us killed." Jona glares angrily at Eric. "Or, well, Enjolras didn't get them killed. We all fought together. We all chose to be there. Is that what it's been telling you—him? That you were responsible for what happened?"

"It's been saying a lot of things." Eric looks away from Jona for a moment before turning resolutely back to the group. "What we need to consider is anything it's said that could be useful. Anything we could use against it, or use to predict it."

Barry gives a brief, dark chuckle. "It's easy enough to predict. Every time it shows up it says something awful, about how useless I was or how pointless our fight was or how incompetent some or all of us were. It likes seeing me hurt. The more it can upset me, the happier it is. It doesn't matter if I show that I'm upset or not. It seems to just _feel_ it when something hits home, and it works at whatever it was like a sliver until all I want to do is break something to make it damn well stop. I've never been able to hurt it, though."

Eric's eyes had narrowed throughout Barry's recital, his lips pressing together in impotent frustration. "Has anyone been able to hurt it?"

Everyone shakes their heads, a general murmur of negation filling the room.

"All right." Eric takes a deep breath, straightening slightly, as though he doesn't like what he's going to have to say next. "Last night, it managed to… it hurt us. Badly. I don't know exactly what happened, but it felt… it was like when Enjolras and I were fighting, only it… wasn't. In the dream what happened wasn't quite so… directed, not quite so… _intentional _as when he and I were fighting. But it felt like something was… breaking, inside us. Enjolras couldn't fight anymore. He'd already been through… a lot that evening. And the shadow said… it said that it had been planning to wait until we found the last one before starting the feast, but it wouldn't get a better opportunity than what it had right then. It has claws. They were on Enjolras' chest. I managed to wake us up before it got any farther, but…"

Con stares at Eric in open horror. Jona and Lyle have her hands in a death grip. Cori and Barry sit in stunned silence. Even Mark seems more worried, though the lost, haunted look on his face had never faded entirely to begin with.

"Right." Cori tries to smile, but there's too much fear in his eyes for it to look real. "Is being considered part of a feast an upgrade or a downgrade?"

"It was waiting until we found the last one…" Barry has his hands clenched into fists. "So it's finding us because we've gotten together? Is that it? So who's missing? Feuilly… Feuilly's Finny, isn't he? Grant is Grantaire, no brainer there. Which means we're missing… Jean. Jean Prouvaire."

"Our poet." Jona leans against Maria, though his eyes stay locked on Eric. "It's been waiting for us to find Jehan before doing… what? Did anything happen, Eric? Does it feel like anything… I mean, you said it felt like something _broke_? How broken are we talking? Is there anything we can do to fix it?"

"I'm all right." Eric's right hand presses hard against his chest for a moment before he forces a smile and twines the fingers of both hands together in front of him. "We're both all right. It hurt, but whatever happened doesn't seem to have caused any permanent damage."

"How would we _know_?" Con's voice is low, troubled. "Does it make you more vulnerable now? Is damage like that cumulative? Eric, this is _bad_. This is—"

"Con, it's fine." Eric silences his second in command with a single look. "I didn't want to worry you. I wanted to know if anyone else had useful information, and make sure we all knew exactly how much danger we were in."

Jona laughs, a shaky, frightened sound. "I was already pretty convinced that the shadow was bad before you told me it's trying to break our _souls_, and that it's actually come pretty close with you. Eric, if it's able to break you and Enjolras—"

"It can't. It won't." Cori's voice is firm and determined. "That's what it _wants_, don't you see? It's been working hardest at you, Eric, because it thinks if it breaks you, the rest of us will follow. But it's not going to break you. It's not going to break us. It's not going to make us fight… for whatever various combinations of us we want to go with. So you and Enjolras had a little spat. So what? Courfeyrac and I did, too, and we're perfectly happy right now. So you're tired and worn out. You haven't slept well in _four months_. We'll figure out a way to get you guys some good sleep, and everything will be fine. We're not going to let this thing have its way."

Barry nods, face set in a grim, fierce scowl. "There has to be a way to hurt it. There has to be a way to defeat it. It's wary of us. Bahorel noticed it the first time we dreamt. It stays back from us until we're hurting badly."

"Great." Mark sounds far from relieved. "So we just have to keep from getting upset as it emotionally tortures us. Very easy. Very simple."

"None of us should be alone." Eric's tapping his finger against the carpet again, a small, subtle movement that seems to be the only indication he's upset. "It helps that we've already congregated together, I suppose. I don't know if it will actually be of any use, but for the time being we should make sure there's someone in the room who knows what's going on when we're sleeping. We can try to wake each other from the nightmares."

Mark's expression turns vaguely panicked again.

Grinning, Cori throws an arm around Mark's shoulders. "You'll stay with me and Con until we get a grip on this. All right? Unless you've got somewhere else to go."

"No." Shaking his head, Mark gives Cori a relieved, sheepish smile. "I don't. It's the first time living alone has ever been a bad thing."

Maria looks between her boys and Barry. "I take it he's going to be moving into the room with us for a while?"

Barry turns to look at her with wide eyes. "I never said—"

"Oh, just do it." Lyle grins at the other man, never releasing his hold on Maria. "We already moved into your apartment without much fanfare or any discussion of rent; you moving into the bedroom won't be that big a difference. Just pretend we're all five years old again and having a sleep-over."

Barry's eyes find and hold Maria's, and she sees the same knowledge in them that she had the first time they met. He understands her boys better than they think he does.

Smiling at him, she sits up, disentangling herself from Jona and Lyle without actually losing contact with either. "Don't worry. I'll be scarce and they'll behave. It sounds like I'm not part of your dead French club, anyway, and I'd prefer them not to have their souls eaten or whatever other horrible thing this creature wants to do to you."

She's talking about a creature trying to eat her boys' souls. She's talking about a monster that stalks them in dreams, torments them, has somehow resurrected the ghosts of men that they used to be two hundred years ago.

She's _believing_ it, because they believe it, because Eric believes it, and that's probably the most frightening thing of all.

Jona's hand squeezes tight around hers. "You're sure you don't feel anything stirring inside your head? No dreams about dying in Paris?"

"Nope. My nightmares have a decidedly more mundane bent to them." Though that may not be true anymore, after tonight. Especially if she's alone without them, unable to touch them, wondering each night if they're going to come through it all right.

Con stares at her, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "Why not you? Why us? What sets us apart?"

Maria shrugs, looking away from that piercing gaze. "Maybe it's got a thing for the Y chromosome."

"No. There's something more to it. It _knows_ us, somehow. It knows how to hurt us. It knows what happened." Eric's gaze flashes around the circle until it lands on Mark. "I'd say it's because we all died that day, but from the way you said _we're_ going to die and that you don't want to watch _us_ die again I'm guessing that's not true."

"Sorry?" There's a petulant note to the way Mark says the word. He ducks his head immediately afterward, taking a deep breath. "No. You're right. Marius survived the barricade. And I'm sorry. The shadow choosing to hunt us probably does have something to do with the barricade. It was almost all men who died on the barricade, after all. And even though I didn't—_Marius_ didn't—die, I was wounded badly enough that I probably should have."

Joly tilts his head to the side. "I wonder if it's just luck that we all came back with a male body, or if Con's onto something with the whole souls-like-certain-looks thing. I mean, just statistically speaking, shouldn't half of us be female?"

Cori grins, his eyebrows rising. "You're assuming we're all cis male gendered. That could be a big assumption."

Barry laughs. "I think we would have noticed by now if someone was trying to hide something like that."

Eric frowns. "It's not hiding to present as the gender that you feel you are. And don't look at me like that. If I was trans, I'd tell. If for some reason I felt I couldn't embrace the identity fully, you all would at least know."

Lyle and Jona each squeeze Maria's hand, their eyes suddenly fixed on the floor.

Eric continues, directing his words to Barry. "Besides, you seem to like kicking me in the testicles when we're sparring, so you should be very aware that they're there."

There is nothing repentant in Barry's grin. "I take the targets you offer me, ace boy. If I remind you often enough where to block, maybe you won't end up a castrati some day."

Con sighs, his head buried in his hands. "That word does not mean what you think it means, Barry. It actually has a very particular cultural context in which it should be used."

Rolling his eyes, Barry fixes Con with an exasperated look. "I am aware of that, Conlan. I'm also aware he's too old and has far too deep a voice to ever become a castrati."

Con arches an eyebrow. "And the fact that the singular is castrato and the plural castrati?"

"See, this is why it's much more fun to tease Eric than to tease you. _Why_ do you know that? How is that possibly relevant to anything else in your life?"

For the first time in a while Con smiles. It's a good expression for him, much better than the tension that almost immediately returns. "Every piece of information has relevance somewhere. We're getting distracted again, though. How do we fight it? How do we kill it?"

Silence descends on the small group, a silence that's somehow more frightening than all the talk that came before.

Eric finally speaks, his voice determined, his hands still. "I'll find a way. I promise. I'm not going to let it hurt any of you."

The look on Con's face as he stares at Eric makes Maria tighten her fingers around her boys' hands again. He looks so lost. He looks so _hurt_. He looks so _scared_, and she wishes she had been able to spend more time with these people, that she could understand what to do or say to help with the tension between him and Eric.

Cori moves from Mark's side to kneeling between Con and Eric with a speed and grace that surprise her. Slinging an arm around each of them, he draws them closer together. "_We'll_ find a way. _We_, Eric. Enjolras. Both of you, all of us, we're going to find a way. Death apparently couldn't keep us down. A little demon that can only attack us through dreams sure as hell isn't going to."

"Right." Eric sighs, some of the tension leaving his body as he smiles at Cori. "Us."

"Us." Con fixes Eric with a determined stare. "Whatever it's told you, whatever damage it's done to you, never forget that, either of you. _Us_."

Raising his hand tentatively, Mark waits for the trio to acknowledge him before speaking. "Does this mean we should go looking for Jehan, or try to avoid him, or…? And what about others who died? What about the boy, Gavroche? What about—"

Mark suddenly pales, jerking to his feet and turning to the door before stopping.

"Mark?" Cori's tone manages to be both gentle and cautiously amused. "Care to share something with us?"

"The girl who died. Eponine. I just thought maybe she was…" Mark turns back around and settles down, a relieved smile on his face. "But she's not. I asked her earlier if she was having any dreams about Paris, and she said no."

Supporting his head on his fist as he watches Mark, Cori sighs. "Should I assume by her that you mean Erin?"

Mark nods.

Barry arches one eyebrow. "You're sure she wasn't lying to you? I wasn't exactly keen to talk about my nightmares, you know." He holds out a hand to silence Jona and Lyle before they can say anything. "_Except_ when I was drunk, and that doesn't count."

"Erin's never lied to me." An uncertain frown pulls at the corners of Mark's mouth. "I don't see why she would about this. I'll bring it up again when I see her tomorrow, though.

Cori chews at a hangnail, expression contemplative. "There's no way to catch up to her tonight?"

Mark shrugs. "I can try, but she said she was going out with friends. I don't know where she went or when she'll be back."

Eric leans back. "We should contact Finny, as well, see if we can give him a warning."

Tilting his head to the side, Con makes a soft, uneasy noise in the back of his throat. "I don't know if talking about this over the phone is smart. What if someone reacts badly, like you did? This is something that needs to be done face to face, at least at first."

"We can see how things are going, though." Cori chews on his bottom lip for a moment. "See how soon he's going to be back here, maybe try to ease into the topic. Hell, maybe you and I can just go see him tomorrow. I don't want to leave any one of us less prepared than the others. I don't want to give this thing any easy targets. As for finding the others or avoiding them…"

Eric frowns. "I'm not sure we _could_ avoid them. We weren't exactly looking for each other, after all, and we've already got nine out of the ten commanders of the barricade."

Jona glances around the circle. "Maybe that's what it wants? Maybe it's just after those of us who were leaders?"

Con's hands are clenched into fists in front of him. "We don't know. We _can't_ know. There are too many variables. We'll just have to stay alert and keep gathering as much information as we can, keep making theories, and eventually we'll narrow it down to the right ones."

"I intend to keep working, as well." Eric's voice is soft again, softer than she expects it to be. "None of you have to, of course. Given what's happening, I'd understand if—"

Cori's hand clenches hard around Eric's. "Eric? Do you remember what I said about us? I'm going to start getting concerned like Con is if—"

"It's a valid question, Cori. It's something all of them should get a chance to answer on their own." Eric meets Cori's eyes evenly. "I'm not going to risk pushing someone too far. That… _thing_ wants us tired and overwhelmed. I'm not going to risk helping it along just because we were afraid to ask a question."

Settling back on his heels, Cori crosses his hands over his chest. "Fine. I, for one, am now even more determined to have this damn election turn out the right way. I don't want to have to figure out how to kill a demon and assassinate a president at the same time."

Con smiles, just slightly. "You know I'm with you, Eric."

Jona studies his hands. "I'm actually with Cori about this. Part of what it keeps repeating is that we're failures. Well, let's prove it wrong."

"Where would I be if not by Jona's side?" Lyle's line earns smiles from the rest of the group that Maria doesn't quite understand. She suspects it has to do with something they said when they were speaking French. Why did she not pay more attention when they were teaching foreign languages in high school? "Plus, I—we—agree with him. Our fight's important. Let's keep fighting it, and prove the bastard wrong."

Maria frowns at the 'we' for a moment before she understands. Well. Plural pronouns for each of her boys individually is going to take some getting used to.

"It's a fight." Barry grins. "I'm there."

"As long as I agree with what you're doing, I'll help." Mark smiles. "I'm pretty sure Erin would punch me if I suddenly tried to start avoiding you all, anyway. I'm her ride to the party."

"And me." Maria tries not to fidget as all eyes in the room turn to her. "I know, I know, I haven't been a big part of this, but… I am kind of a member of the group, and you guys are going to need all the help you can get. So count me in."

Eric smiles. "You've always been welcome here, Maria. All right, then. Does anyone have anything else to say about the shadow?"

A murmur of negations and slow headshakes is the only response.

"If anyone thinks of anything, say it." Eric straightens. "Otherwise, let's go over our non-supernatural plans and see if there's anything that we need to change."

Jona releases her hand and picks up his plate again. "Focus on the problems that we can actually solve while we gather more information about the ones that shouldn't be physically possible?"

Eric nods. "Exactly."

"Joly and I think that's a great idea."

Yes.

Yes, getting used to her boys having two people in their heads is going to take a lot of getting used to.

But as the conversation falls into more familiar paths and everyone relaxes, she decides that she doesn't really care all that much.

Joly or Jona, Lyle or Laisgle, they're hers, and she's going to do everything she can to protect them.


	16. Part Sixteen: Rebuilding Bridges

**Author's Note:** Thank you again to everyone who reviewed! To answer a few questions, I'm not planning on doing anything with Montparnasse or the rest of the Patron-Minette at the moment. The other two major characters who will be appearing shortly are Jehan and Cosette; Valjean and Fantine will also have parts. Hopefully people will continue to enjoy!

_Part Sixteen: Rebuilding Bridges_

"You're sure you're fine going after Grant on your own?"

Eric gives Con a mildly exasperated look. "You're sure you're fine calling Finny on your own?"

"That's not the same." Con refuses to look away or shift as Eric raises one eyebrow and continues to stare at him. "It's _not_."

"They're both friends that we've had for a while who need to know what's happening so far as this reincarnation business goes." Eric crosses his arms over his chest. "You've known Finny longer; I've known Grant longer. Hence why you're handling Finny and I'm handling Grant."

"Finny just needs to be contacted." Con allows his own exasperation to show in his voice. "Grant _ran away_ despite knowing how important this is. He's been intentionally out of communication for the last few hours. Given everything—"

"Finny may or may not require very fast talking to keep something bad from happening, like him trying to split his soul in half. Grant probably just needs someone to pay his tab and walk him home." Eric's jaw sets, stubborn, determined. "And that's the last we're going to talk about it."

Not if Con has anything to say about it. "Barry or Jona or Lyle could—"

Shaking his head, Eric turns away from Con, walking over to the window and staring out. "Maria needs Jona and Lyle with her right now, and it's best not to keep Barry out too late with me if they're going to be rearranging rooms."

"They were talking about going out to get drinks." Con's actually fairly certain they were talking about going to get drinks because it's a good way to try to find Grant without having to argue with Eric about their going to look for him. Con follows Eric over to the window. Looking out to the parking lot, he can see Cori clapping Mark on the shoulder once before Mark climbs into his car. "I think they could spare a few minutes to help you find your missing roommate."

Eric's eyes stay fixed on Mark's car, on the brightly glowing headlights, and for a moment Con doesn't think he's going to reply. When he finally does, it's in a soft whisper, almost too low for him to here. "It's my fault, Con."

_It's not._

"It's not." It takes Con a moment to be certain he's spoken in English, Combeferre's determined proclamation ringing through his own mind. Combeferre's worry and fear tangle with Con's, and it's hard to breathe, hard to _think_, but then they separate again. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, Con reaches out and places his hand on Eric's shoulder. "What are we talking about, specifically?"

The ghost of a smile tugs at Eric's lips as he finally turns back to Con. "Shouldn't you know that before being so adamant that it's not my fault?"

"No. Because all the things I've heard you attempting to take blame for this evening were most decidedly not your fault—and not Enjolras' fault, either." The addition mollifies Combeferre, though it makes the smile disappear from Eric's face.

"He ran because of what happened with me." Eric runs a hand across his eyes. "He ran because I yelled at him and then I tried to unintentionally kill myself and he thinks that it's his fault."

"We don't know you would have died if the two of you actually managed to hurt each other." Contemplating it does nothing to help with the knot of worry currently tangling Con's guts. "You had no idea what was going on. There shouldn't be any blame laid anywhere for what happened. Or if you want to blame someone, blame me. I'm the one who screwed up the names."

_Or me._ Combeferre's mental voice is quiet, but it's still a stressed quiet, a quiet of all other emotion being violently curtailed. _I was too close to the fore, looking for Enjolras too eagerly. It's likely my fault we made the slip._

_It wasn't anyone's fault._ He is not going to engage in self-doubt or self-blame. That won't help anything.

He's also not going to tell Eric that the dead man in his head is willing to take blame separately from him. They're trying to get Eric and Enjolras to work together, not to start seeing the separations in the rest of them.

_It's inevitable that they're going to notice, Con. The fact that I speak French most comfortably and you English most comfortably would give it away, if nothing else._ There's a note of wry humor to Combeferre's voice, finally overshadowing some of the nauseating fear. _And I don't think they're going to do anything foolish like last time._

"You're talking to him." Eric makes it a statement, not a question.

"Yes." Con hesitates. "Is it that obvious?"

"Not to someone who wasn't looking for it." Eric shrugs one shoulder, lion-graceful but tense, his expression showing that he's ill at ease with the situation. "Your eyes and mouth move, a small bit, but mainly… mainly it's that you're not watching me anymore when you're talking to him. You're usually very alert, very aware, but when you're talking to him the majority of your body goes very still and your eyes look… empty."

"Empty." He tries to smile, but it's hard. "You could have chosen a different adjective, you know. Especially because _empty_ isn't really the problem."

"What exactly did Grant do earlier?" Eric turns away again, back to the window. Crossing his arms over his chest, he doesn't acknowledge the abrupt conversation change at all. "Why were you and Jona with him?"

_He's avoiding. He doesn't want to deal with it._

_I noticed that, Combeferre._ He will not get frustrated with his older self. It's likely just frustration with the entire situation bleeding over, anyway.

At least this gets the conversation back to the topic that Con had initially wanted to talk about. "Grant voice recorded you during your dreams last night. I may have been responsible for him getting the idea. I asked him if he had any idea what you were dreaming about, and he said no, but that you talked in your dreams sometimes. When he played it back, it was in French. So he texted the rest of the Independents and asked those of us who spoke French to meet him. From there…"

"From there you managed to figure things out." Eric's hand rises, presses hard against the glass of the window. His eyes stare straight ahead. "You heard Enjolras speaking, and that was the final piece of the puzzle?"

"I heard you scream."

Eric turns back to him, expression troubled.

"Combeferre was already close to the front of my thoughts, bleeding through into my awareness. How could he not be? I'd been focusing on Enjolras giving a rather beautiful speech for over two hours by that point. And then for him to hear Enjolras scream like that… for me to hear _you_ scream like that…"

It was hell. It was a waking nightmare, a torrent of confusion and anger and fear and a desire to protect. He had known that Eric was alive, was all right, because Grant had said that he was, but to hear that kind of sound from him…

For Combeferre to hear that kind of sound from Enjolras…

_It was when something 'broke'._ Combeferre's tone as he makes the guess is controlled quiet again, the peace before a storm. _Ask him if that's what it was._

"When you screamed, was it… was it when the shadow had its claws on you, or when you said that something broke, or…"

"I don't know. I haven't heard the tape." Eric turns back to the window, to staring straight ahead. "But I suspect it's before the shadow touched us. I was terrified of what it was going to do when it reached for him, but I don't think pain would have even registered then. Not after what happened before. I've never hurt like that, Con. Enjolras hasn't, either. _Dying_ didn't hurt like that, and we've done that quite a bit over the last few months."

"How did the shadow manage to hurt you that badly without even touching you?" The words come out half-strangled, a low growl.

Eric flinches away, just slightly, shaking his head as he closes his eyes. "I don't know. It started like a normal night—a normal round of nightmares, dying on the barricade, that sort of thing. Enjolras was doing all right. He'd… accepted, in a way, what happened at the barricade. He wasn't going to play its game anymore. So it changed the game. It…"

Eric opens his eyes, staring hard at a point straight ahead of him again, and Con realizes that he's been staring at the reflection of his eyes.

When he continues speaking, it's in French, though his tone hasn't changed. "It knows you all. It created mimics of you, good enough to fool me, good enough to make me _care_ again. Good enough for me to slip back into the dream, to lose track of real and unreal, and it killed you. I watched you all die. I watched you die in front of me, because I didn't have the right words to stop it. I…"

Enjolras pulls his hand away from the glass and raises it to his head. His eyes close, and he sways in place.

There is no asking and no accepting, but Con manages not to fight as Combeferre claims his body and wraps Enjolras in a fierce embrace. "We're fine, Enjolras. We're here by your side again, and we'll find a way to stop it."

"I know." Enjolras leans hard against Combeferre, pulls the other man tight to him in a display of blatant affection that Combeferre hadn't been expecting. "If I have ever been happier to see someone than I was to see you today, I can't remember or imagine the occasion."

"What's it done to you, Enjolras?" Combeferre pulls back, holds Eric's body out at arm's length. "When Eric says that something broke… _how_…"

"I don't know. If we knew, we would share the information gladly." Enjolras turns to the window, as well, and Con thinks he can understand what Eric meant about _empty_. There's a distance to Enjolras' gaze that hadn't been there before, a sense that Con could do anything he wanted to Eric's body and the man wouldn't notice. Then Enjolras blinks, and he's _present_ again, his gaze sharp, his muscles poised for action rather than locked in place. "What happened last night… I can try to follow the thought-path that hurt us. It wasn't the shadow. What happened, it surprised the beast as much as us. It wasn't expecting its barbs to be as effective as they were. I could try…"

Con doesn't know if Combeferre reached for Enjolras or Enjolras reached for Combeferre, but their fingers are locked tight together. "Is that what you just tried to do? When you were telling me what happened?"

A few seconds of silence pass before Enjolras reluctantly nods. "Yes. I think… that there is still a wound there, a way that we can be hurt."

"And if you approach that wound again…"

_Don't._ Con snarls out the word. _Don't encourage them to hurt themselves._

_If there is a wound…_ Combeferre doesn't want them to do it, either. He doesn't want to encourage Enjolras anywhere near something that could make him scream like what they heard on the tape. _Wounds left untreated can fester. If it makes them more vulnerable…_

_And if we push them toward it and they start bleeding again?_ Without his body under his control, it's harder to keep his emotions in check. It's harder to keep the raw terror at bay, to think around the fear and anger that want to swamp thought. _If we kill them, Combeferre… or if we set them up to be hurt by that monster tonight…_

_It knows that there's a way to hurt them._ Combeferre is holding Enjolras' hand so tightly it must be hurting the other man. _It said that it wants them. What else should we do?_

What else _can_ they do? If they do nothing, they might lose everything to a shadow-creature that hates them for no discernable reason.

If they do something, though… if they tell Enjolras to try to identify and face the injury and he's badly injured or dies…

_Ask them._ This isn't his decision to make. He doesn't want to place it on Enjolras and Eric, either, not right now, but he doesn't know what else to do. _Ask them what they think will happen._

"I don't know what will happen." Enjolras smiles, though it fades after a moment. "I think I would have been lost last night without Eric. If we were to approach it knowing what we were getting into… perhaps it would be better. Or perhaps it wouldn't be. I don't know." Enjolras turns back to the window, his free hand rising once more to meet his reflection. "There's so much we don't know, Combeferre. It's… infuriating."

"We'll figure it out." Combeferre squeezes Enjolras' hand once more before releasing his hold with reluctance. "But given how much we don't know, we'll wait to push you farther. The two of you have already been through enough. We'll give you some time to heal, and if things still seem… broken… then we'll deal with it."

"What's it been telling you, Combeferre?" Enjolras continues to press his hand against the glass, his face impassive, his eyes fixed on his reflection's gaze. "What does it use to mock you? What… lies… does it tell you?"

"Everything that will hurt me, as Bahorel said." Combeferre turns so that they're also facing the window. "It tells me that our cause was lost, that all our deaths were pointless. It tells me that I was useless. It tells me that if I had looked harder, if we had thought longer, we would have found better ways to fight. That we could have found ways not to fight, that I turned to bloodshed too easily. It tells me that we killed good men for no gain. It tells me that I hurt you, that one of the last things I ever did was tell you not to kill and that you will hate me through eternity for that."

Enjolras' head jerks back around, fury and sorrow battling in his expression. "You know that isn't true, my friend. You wouldn't be who you were if you got through that hell without wanting, at least once, for the bloodshed to stop."

"And you wouldn't be who you were if you had stopped." Combeferre's hand rests softly against Enjolras' outstretched arm. "I regret nothing that happened during those days, Enjolras. None of our actions. I would follow you again in a heartbeat. We _are_ following you again."

Enjolras closes his eyes. "You see me in him?"

"I see you in him, Enjolras." Combeferre's words are soft, and he steps aside as soon as they're said. Con continues, switching to English. "And I see you in him, Eric. Just like I see Combeferre in myself, and he sees me in him. It's difficult, I know, but it's also _amazing_. It's proof that there is life after death. It's proof that there's something fundamental to us, something outside of biology, that can't be destroyed with the body or the brain."

"But it can be eaten by shadow-monsters." Eric speaks in English, as well, and though the words are dark he smiles to take the sting out of them. "Which is why I need to go find Grant and you need to go call Finny. All right?"

"Even if you insist on going to find him, are you sure that the two of you should stay here alone? He might be too drunk to wake you from any nightmares, and you're the one who needs to be woken most."

Eric's expression darkens. "I'm not an invalid, Con. And knowing that it's real, knowing… knowing all that we know, I don't think Enjolras and I are going to be quite as easy a target as it thinks we'll be."

"I don't think you're an invalid. I just…" He's just terrified. Both of them are, afraid that they're going to wake up and have lost their best friend overnight, with nothing they could do to stop it. "I need you to be all right, Eric, because if it kills you…"

"It's not going to kill me. It's not going to kill any of us." The certainty that had been missing from Eric's expression throughout the rest of the conversation is finally back. "I know what it is, now. We see it for the enemy that it is, and we're going to kill it. But we can't do that until we sleep, and we can't sleep until we go find Grant. So…"

"All right. All right, fine." Sighing, Con forces himself to take a step back from Eric. "I'll leave you to it, then. But if you decide that you need somewhere else to stay, you're always welcome at our place. Or Cori or I could come over here."

"I'll call you if I need you." Eric finally turns from the window, moving to the kitchen counter to pick up his keys. "I promise."

"Sleep well, then." Con forces his hands into his pockets, so that he won't reach for Eric again, won't hold onto him for dear life. "And call me in the morning."

"Same to you. And if you need help with Finny, just give me a call."

"Will do. Take care." Con forces himself to leave as Eric bends down to tie his shoes.

He doesn't run down the stairs, but he moves quickly, forcing himself forward so that he won't consider going back, adrenaline pounding through his veins.

Why? Why does he feel like he's missing something, something important? What had he seen, what had Eric or Enjolras said other than the obvious? What's bothering him or Combeferre or both of them that he hasn't acknowledged yet?

_He acted guilty._ Combeferre makes the offer tentatively, uncertain. _Enjolras wasn't one for guilt._

"Eric isn't, either, but it's not that." His hands are clenched into fists, and he pauses for a moment on the first floor landing. "It's something else. It's done something else to them… changed something else in them. Why did he want to know what I'd been dreaming about, specifically? What was he looking for? What's it taken away from him that it shouldn't have been able to?"

"You're talking to yourself, Con." Cori's voice is cheerful, still, though his expression is somewhat wary as he reaches out to clap Con on the shoulder. "Careful who catches you doing that and how often. We don't want anyone getting suspicious who won't understand the whole dead Frenchman thing."

"Sorry." Con mutters the word, trying not to be annoyed that his train of thought has been broken. "I'm all set, so if you want to drive we can—"

"Be glad to drive, but I forgot my phone up at Eric's." Giving Con's shoulder another gentle pat, Cori hops up two stairs in one step. "Mark's going to meet us at our place in about an hour. Just let me go grab my phone, and I'll be down to drive us home. And watch the talking."

With that Cori's gone, bounding up the stairs two and three at a time.

Con makes his slow way out to the car, thoughts heading back to their previous topic.

What's changed about Eric since he's met the man? What's been bothering him about Eric's behavior lately?

The guilt. The guilt is a huge part of it, because Eric isn't supposed to be guilty. But why does the guilt bother him? Because it makes Eric try to take on more responsibility? No, that's not quite right. The guilt and the hoarding of tasks both stem from the same thing, and it finally snaps into place as he reaches for the door handle.

He had been able to leave, finally, because Eric had looked certain. Eric had looked _determined_, sure of himself, and it had been real. It had been like he always expects Eric to look.

"Doubt." He whispers the word, and his heart seems to sink in his chest.

_Both of them._ Combeferre's words are coated in fury and sorrow. _It's taught them how to doubt. That's why he wanted to know what I had seen. He wanted to know if I thought any of what it said was true._

The first thing he had noticed about Eric was his certainty. Even before his intelligence, before his beauty, before his fortitude, in the first moments that he had seen Eric speaking on stage, he had seen certainty personified. Eric knew what was wrong in the world, and he knew how to fix it, and he was quite happy to take any who were willing and able along with him into his vision of a better land.

He wasn't always _right_, and sometimes he needed a gentle course correction, but he was always _sure_.

And it's stripped that away from him.

That thing, that creature, that _monster_, it's stripped that surety away from him.

_Doubt is anathema to him. It's not in his nature._ Cold fury fills Combeferre, cold fury and a burning grief that manages to bring tears to their eyes. _We need to destroy this thing, Conlan. We need to destroy it before it destroys us._

Con just nods, leaning against the car, keeping the tears at bay by sheer force of will.

XXX

Just as Eric's turning the key to lock the apartment Cori comes bounding up out of the stairway.

"Hold up!" Cori jogs down the hallway, coming to a halt at Eric's side. "I left my phone in your room."

Sighing, Eric opens the door again and gestures for Cori to enter.

"Thanks." Cori turns on the lights without looking. "Now, I was sitting over there… this might take a bit more looking than I expected. Sorry. I know you need to be heading out. You've got an idea where you're going?"

"I know what his usual haunts are." Eric shrugs. "I always told him to call me if he was too drunk to drive or if he needed anything."

"That's nice of you." Cori checks under the television stand before moving up to rifling through the video game consoles.

Shrugging, Eric leans against the doorframe. "He was—is—my roommate. He became a friend. Getting him home safe every once in a while was the least I could do."

"I'm not surprised, since you've done it for me and Barry, too. Doesn't make it any less nice of you, especially since you seem to be allergic to alcohol."

"I'm not allergic to it." Eric frowns. "I just find the taste of most alcoholic beverages to be absolutely disgusting, and the results to be… less than pleasant, at least with regards to myself."

"One day I'll find a way to get you to relax and let loose that you'll actually enjoy." The way Cori says it makes it seem much more like a threat than Eric suspects he intends.

_Does he try to take you dancing?_ Enjolras' voice is quiet, tentative, still heavily accented as he does his best to keep himself separate from Eric.

It's not possible for them to stay completely separate, though, not while Enjolras is awake and watching through Eric's eyes. All it takes is a moment of quiet and Eric can sense the other man clearly, his emotions, bits of his thoughts.

He's waiting to be rebuffed. He's waiting for Eric to reprimand him, to pull away from him, to react with repugnance or fear or hatred.

Yet he's making the overture, still, his thoughts filled with memories of Cori's doppelganger. Good memories, pleasant memories of time with friends despite the overlay of exasperation that many of them have, and Eric couldn't hate the man right now even if he wanted to.

And he doesn't want to. He wants Enjolras separate from him, his identity intact, but he doesn't want the man hurt. He doesn't want the man afraid or worried.

So he returns the trust Enjolras showed him, offering memories of Cori dragging him dancing.

Enjolras recoils for a moment before examining the memories with caution and a great deal of confusion. _I think dancing may have been one of the things that's changed the most between my world and yours._

Laughing, Eric shakes his head. _Not all of it. Here—he wanted me to learn ballroom dancing, as well, see? But yes, the club and the discoteca were… quite different from what your world had._

_It seems very…_ Enjolras tries and fails to think of a polite way to phrase what he means. _It's very… sexual, isn't it? Do you…?_

_I went because he and the others wanted me to, and I had nothing else to occupy those nights. I'm not interested in the sex, though. I'm asexual._

He doesn't mean to overwhelm Enjolras, but the other man still reels back as a decade's worth of definitions and research into sexuality and LGBTQIA rights is suddenly available in Eric's thoughts.

_Sorry._ Eric winces, trying to parcel out the most important bits of information. _Asexuality… it means I've never felt a desire to have sex with another person. I don't need it, like most people seem to._

Enjolras ponders the information for a moment. _There are words for things like that? There are words for… a lot of things that we didn't even consider._

_The world's changed. Some things are better. Some things still need to be fixed._ He tries to parcel out the information again, large bits first—that they have a Republic, that the people have a vote, that women have rights though not yet true equality, that there are some social safety nets though they are getting more thread-bare by the year, that there is more to sexuality and gender than what Enjolras overheard from Courfeyrac and the rest and that it's _important_, that countries and cultures are deeply interconnected now and immigration laws are complicated and broken—but it's still too much for Enjolras to assimilate.

_Slowly, Eric._ Enjolras makes the request when he can think clearly again, his accent much diminished. _I can't understand all of your life at once, any more than you could understand all of mine at once._

_I know._ Rubbing at the back of his neck, Eric tries to get the tension that's been building all evening to lessen. _I'm sorry. I was actually trying to just give you the highlights._

_And I would very much like to get them. I think, if you'd allow it, that I would like to assist you with your work._ Enjolras' accent thickens again as he makes the offer, and Eric knows that he's preparing to be rejected.

Has he really been such a terrible host, to make Enjolras so wary of him? Or is Enjolras simply wary of everything, now, on edge after four months of torture?

The wariness at least keeps Eric's gut reaction—of negation, of denial—from getting the upper hand, and maybe he has been a terrible host. That's something he can change, though. _It's the Independent's fight—my fight. But I would gladly accept any input_ _you might be able to offer._

"Oh, this is too weird." Cori's tone is quiet, slightly awed. "Though I suppose at least you two are getting along."

"Hmm?" Eric frowns, gaze refocusing on Cori. "What was that?"

"It's nice to see you getting along with yourself, that's all." Tilting his head, Cori smiles. "But we're really going to need to watch each other, to make sure no one decides to blank out at an inopportune moment."

"I'm fairly certain we're all smart enough not to do that."

"Oh?" Cori raises both eyebrows. "So what were you doing before you and Enjolras decided to have a little chat?"

Eric frowns. "I was waiting for you to find your phone. Have you done that yet?"

"Ah… no." Standing, Cori laughs. "But you know Courfeyrac and I have always been easily distracted by a pretty face, and you were looking particularly statuesque there. Don't worry, I'll find my phone soon and you can get after Grant. I think it's smart, you going after him. You're probably the one of us that he'll listen to the most."

"He'd listen to any of us." Eric straightens and moves back into the apartment, trying to remember where Cori had gone and where he might have put his phone. "But I owe it to him to go fetch him home."

"He may listen to any of us, for various definitions of listen, but he's been in love with you for the last two hundred years." Cori has his head under the armchair, hiding his expression. "Chances are you going to find him is going to help him a lot."

Eric blinks, trying to make sure he's processing the words correctly. "Come again?"

"Grantaire." Cori pulls his head out and settles down cross-legged on the ground, no smile on his face for once. "He was in love with Enjolras. And Grant's been head over heels for you ever since I met him, though he tries not to be too obvious about it."

"I…" Eric hesitates. Normally he'd say that what Cori's saying is ridiculous, but Cori tends to be much better than he is at picking up on the subtleties of romantic entanglements. "Are you certain?"

"He has entire notepads full of sketches of you. He follows you like you're the sun and he's a little planet—maybe a planetoid, actually, or whatever they downgraded Pluto to."

"I don't… wait, he has sketches of me? Why?"

Cori buries his head in his hands for a moment and gives a long-suffering sigh. Then he stands in one fluid motion and places a hand on each of Eric's shoulders. "He has sketches of you because you're beautiful and dynamic and he loves you and he's an artist. Drawing people they love is what artists do."

He's way too tired to be dealing with this right now. "You're really certain? It's not just…"

"I know better than to use 'just' to an asexual when regarding platonic affection, and no, I'm not certain. I haven't asked him about it. Maybe there's nothing romantic about it. I'm not trying to say there definitely is. But romantic or not, there's something special about the affection he feels for you." Cori tightens his hands. "Just like there was something special about the affection Grantaire felt for Enjolras."

_Is that true?_ He doesn't mean to ask Enjolras the question, but it's there, between them.

_I don't know!_ Enjolras pulls back from him, from the situation, from the knowledge of Cori's sexuality and what he's implying about Grantaire. It's not intentional, not thought out, is just the gut reactions of a nineteenth-century asexual suddenly confronted with something far outside his knowledge base, but it still annoys Eric.

_You don't know if the man who died by your side loved you?_ Died over and over again, the signal that the end of the nightmares is coming, the signal that death is coming, and Eric doesn't mean to fall into the memories but they're suddenly far too vivid.

Enjolras recoils from him, from the dreams, suddenly a vicious ball of feral anger thinking in a language Eric can't understand, and he—

He is suddenly blinking, confused, acutely aware of his body again as lips brush against his cheek.

"That's better." Cori murmurs the words, the fingers of his right hand trailing over the cheek that he had kissed. "That didn't look like the type of conversation I want to watch the two of you having."

"Cori…" Raising one hand to his cheek, Eric tries and fails to think of a way to not sound inane. "You just kissed me."

"I kissed your cheek." There's nothing apologetic about Cori's grin. "It's a perfectly legitimate greeting in some countries. I thought it might snap your attention back to me, and it did."

"You know you could have tried talking."

"I could have. It worked well enough for Con, I suppose." Cori takes a step back, his hands slowly finding their way into his pockets. "But I'm not Con. And I wanted to kiss you."

He doesn't know how to deal with this. Enjolras _really_ doesn't know how to deal with this, the man's presence still a lurking, uncertain, French-speaking mass of turmoil and confusion in the back of Eric's mind. "Did I mention that we haven't been sleeping well for the last few months? I may need you to explain things a little more clearly."

"I'm not sure it's something that can be explained clearly. It's complicated." Cori's eyes drop to the ground for a moment before he raises his head determinedly. "Basically, all I wanted to let you know is that Grant cares for you deeply. Grantaire cared for Enjolras deeply. I don't think there's one of us that could hurt him or help him as easily as you can, and Courfeyrac and I were pretty certain that you weren't aware of it. Whether he wants to sleep with you or not… I don't know. Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if _he_ doesn't know. And even if he does, you're obviously under no obligation to do anything with him. Just… be gentle. Especially now, especially with all of us still reeling from that _thing_, be gentle with him."

His hand is still at his cheek, at the place where Cori kissed him, and Eric forces his fingers to move away. "I promise to be as gentle with him as you have been with me."

That earns a brief, sharp laugh from Cori. "You don't want gentle, Eric. You want direct. Enjolras was the same way."

Enjolras is finally starting to calm down, his thoughts taking on more coherency and less of the burning urgency to _defend_, _protect_, _survive_ than they had before. He's still utterly confused, completely at a loss as to what's going on with regards to Cori and Grant and Eric, and Eric isn't sure that he blames him.

He's not exactly sure what's going on, either. "So your kissing me meant…?"

"It meant that I love you and that I have poor impulse control." Cori skips forward and kisses Eric's other cheek, still grinning. "It doesn't mean that I'm asking you to date me or anything, stop looking so worried and horrified. Though if you ever want to date someone, and I'm not otherwise engaged, just give me the sign."

"Courfeyrac kissed Enjolras a few times." It's steadying, somehow, to have the two images overlapping, Courfeyrac kissing Enjolras and Cori kissing him. "He always said it was a game, too."

"The ultimate game, though we'd never toy with your heart. You're too dear to us and too easily confused about these matters." Cori squeezes Eric's hand—or at least he thinks it's Cori. There's a slight lilting accent to Cori's speech that makes Eric wonder how much Courfeyrac is involved in this madness. "We all love you, Eric. Enjolras. And I'm not saying that Grant loves you more than the rest of us do, or that you should do anything you don't want to, just… be aware of how strong the bond he has to you is. Because if anyone's going to get him through this, it's going to be you."

"I need to go find him." That's something he can understand, at least, and something that Enjolras can understand without having to rifle through Eric's memories and knowledge trying to find a basis for Eric's opinions.

Because if Enjolras thinks the word _deviance_ in response to Cori or anything that's been said here one more time, Eric's going to get very annoyed.

Eric's awareness of Enjolras fades again, the man giving up on trying to understand for the time being and just partitioning himself off from Eric as best he can. Let Eric settle this madness however he wishes to. It's Eric's life, after all, and Enjolras never had patience for romantic entanglements.

"I haven't done anything bad to the two of you, bringing this up, have I?" Cori's voice is thin, his expression haunted as he stares at Eric. "Because I didn't want to do that, Eric. I just wanted to help Grant out, and maybe help you out, too."

"I'm fine. Just a bit of culture shock." Smiling at Cori, Eric draws a steadying breath. "So, are we giving up on the phone then, or…?"

"Let me check one more place." Cori pulls up the seat cushion on the couch and emerges with his phone, grinning. "There we go. Now I can get out of your way. Though if you need one of us, you know Con and I are always available."

"I know." Eric eyes the phone and the couch, thinking back over the last few hours. "I also know that, unless my memory is really starting to go, you didn't sit on the couch today."

"Really? Huh. Strange how these things happen." Cori's grin doesn't fade as he claps Eric on the shoulder. "Good luck with Grant. And don't be afraid to call us all if he proves harder to find than you think. And try to sleep well."

"I will. I promise."

Cori disappears down the stairs, and Eric finally manages to lock the door to his apartment and head out on his own hunt.

Hopefully Grant won't prove too difficult to find, because despite sleeping through half the day Eric really just wants to curl up and sleep some more right now.

XXX

Grant's pretty certain that Eric sitting down next to him at the bar is a hallucination.

When Eric orders a glass of red wine, he's absolutely certain that it's a hallucination. The bartender cards the blond man, but that doesn't really help Grant determine if it's Eric or not. Eric could almost certainly pass for seventeen if he tried. Grant almost asks the man if he thinks it's a good or a bad thing that the legal drinking age was lowered to eighteen due to too many young men dying overseas who couldn't legally drink but decides against it.

It doesn't matter if he's hallucinating. It's a pretty hallucination, though he probably shouldn't stare at it too long. There might be another blond person that he's hallucinating Eric's face onto, and he really doesn't feel like getting punched right now for staring at someone too long. Or longingly. That might be the better word.

"I always thought it was being raised Catholic that made wine taste somewhat tolerable." Eric takes a sip from the glass that's placed in front of him, and Grant tries very hard not to think of blood. Eric's blood was much brighter and redder than the wine that he's drinking, anyway. "Secondary hypothesis: having the soul of a dead Frenchman who drank wine with his friends makes it more tolerable."

He's talking about the ghosts. That means that either the hallucination is worse than Grant thought or that this really is Eric.

He's not sure which is the more frightening possibility.

"I'm glad to see you're all right, Grant." Eric turns his chair and body so that he's facing Grant. "And I'm glad that you're a creature of habit. I was starting to get worried when I didn't find you at the first two haunts I checked, but third time's apparently the charm."

"I… might've already been those places. I've been a few places." He speaks to his drink, not daring to watch Eric. "When they tell me maybe I should stop drinking, I go find the next place."

For several long seconds Eric doesn't say anything, and Grant risks glancing up at him. Eric's expression is blank, his blue eyes fixed straight ahead like they had been this afternoon, his body still.

_Is he all right?_ Grantaire voices the panic that rises in them both. _He's not hurt, is he?_

"Erolras, are you all right?" His words are more heavily slurred, his fear mixing with Grantaire's and making it even harder to think than the alcohol.

Eric blinks and narrows his eyes, his head tilting slightly to one side. "What did you just call me?"

"Um… oh. Yeah. Sorry. Should probably say one name at a time, huh? Though Enjolric doesn't sound too bad." He smiles, though the smile fades when Eric doesn't return it. "I'm sorry. You're mad at me. I've got no right to tease you, not anymore. And I know I deserve it. So say what you came here to say. Tell me I'm useless. Tell me I betrayed you. Tell me I fucked up beyond repair this time. We are well and truly ready to hear it."

Silence stretches between the two of them again, and Grant closes his eyes, not wanting to watch Eric's face as he decides what he's going to say.

_Can we tell him we're sorry?_ Grantaire's voice is quiet despair. _Can we ask for another chance ? Enjolras always gave us another chance…_

_We've already had plenty of chances._ Grant drains his drink again. The alcohol doesn't have any taste anymore, doesn't have any burn on his throat. Even the nausea that had been steadily building for the last half hour or so is gone, burned away in the knowledge that he can't postpone what's going to happen any longer. _We hurt him, Grantaire. This wasn't just hurting the cause or hurting ourselves. We hurt _him_. Even if he doesn't send us away, there's no way we can go back._

Finally Eric speaks, his voice quiet and contemplative. "And if I'm not ready to say it?"

That's not what he needs to hear. It's what they _want_ to hear, and tears come to his eyes as Grantaire remembers far too many times that Enjolras could have given up on him and didn't, but it's not what needs to be said right now. "Damn it, Eric, I'm not sober enough to put up with mind games right now. Just say what you want and leave me here."

"How much have you had to drink?" Eric's fingers toy with the edge of his glass.

"Lots." He hasn't been counting, and he's been mixing up what he's drinking, trying and failing to drown out his own thoughts. He's drunk enough to feel terrible, though, to feel physically ill, and even after spending the last few months drinking less for Eric he knows his tolerance level for alcohol is probably at an unhealthy level.

Meaning that he's drunk an even more unhealthy amount tonight. Maybe that means he can die of alcohol poisoning and save them all the trouble.

_We don't want to die._ Grantaire's morose proclamation is full of determination. _Not with him mad at us. I'm supposed to have a moment of blazing glory with him before we die._

_We cheated. We borrowed from his glory when we weren't worthy of it. Dying like this would be more fitting for us._

He raises his hand, intending to ask for another drink, but Eric grabs his arm and pulls it down. "No, Grant. No more tonight. Where are your car keys?"

"Don't know. Doesn't matter."

"Grant…" There's a note of warning and annoyance in Eric's voice that Grant recognizes and responds to without any conscious thought.

"Bartender has them. Wouldn't give me a drink until I gave them to her." He turns a sullen glare on Eric. "And you cheated. You used that voice thing you do to make me tell you."

"If by voice thing you mean talking, then yes, I did." Eric takes another sip from his glass. "It's what people should do when they're having trouble dealing with something. It's much more productive than disappearing or drinking."

"I should disappear. And you don't need to—"

"No, I don't. I don't _need_ to be here, Grant, but I _chose_ to be. I'm your friend. I want to help you." Eric pauses, expression troubled. "I'm just debating how much good talking to you like this is going to be."

"This is my natural state of being. Our natural state of being, really. Drunk and miserable and having failed you." He raises his empty glass in toast. "And it's really past time you said enough with me. I think this afternoon proves that I am really, really not good for you."

"You're blaming yourself for this afternoon." Eric speaks the words quietly, his index finger once again circling the rim of his glass. "Well, I think that makes you the fourth person to take responsibility for it. So perhaps you should only do one-fourth of the self-doubting and drinking, as well."

He's pretty certain it shouldn't be as hard as it is to make sure that Eric's math is right. "I don't know how anyone else could take the blame. I screwed up, nobody else. I made the others do something that I knew would upset you. I didn't do what I said I would. Because of me, you got hurt. It's my fault."

"You're going to insist we do this before letting me take you home, aren't you?" Eric sighs, staring down at his drink for a moment. "All right, then. We'll do it. Two rules. Don't speak too loudly about _them_, and try to remember this if you can. I'm going to be slightly annoyed if I have to go through this entire thing again tomorrow."

"I always remember anything you say, E." A smile works its way through the bitterness and disappointment and onto his face. "You're the one thing I always, always want to remember."

"That's flattering, but I'm not sure how much it's going to help." Eric returns the smile. "Now, explain to me what happened today. You recorded my dream last night."

"I did. I'm sorry. I was just… I was scared. Con was scared. We didn't know what was happening to you, and it… it looked like you were really hurting. It looked like whatever was happening was wearing you down, so… I needed to find out what was going on." He had been so proud of himself, so happy with his cleverness.

That should have been his first hint that things were going to turn out terribly.

"What part are you sorry for?" Eric's head is slightly tilted again, his expression curious but not angry.

"All of it. Everything." He really wishes he hadn't finished his drink already, or that Eric would let him get another one. He knows it's not physically possible for his body to be metabolizing all the alcohol in his system, but it still feels like sobriety's stalking him. Or maybe that's just the thoughts he's been running from all evening catching up.

"Everything isn't a valid answer." Eric frowns at him, but it's still just mild disapproval, not the disgust and disdain that Grant feels he's due. "Rule three: no sweeping generalizations. You can't be sorry for everything, because everything you did wasn't a mistake."

"I think that's a sweeping generalization there." Grant laughs, though there's no humor in the sound. "And I could say my whole life has been a grand mistake, but you say no sweeping generalizations and I have generally tried not to be a depressed drunk because it's generally terribly unfair to everyone around you and so I'll say that I'm sorry I did it all without your permission. I'm sorry I invaded your privacy."

"Apology accepted." There's that smile again, quick and beautiful and then gone, a smile that Grant's certain he doesn't deserve. Then Eric's expression darkens, his eyes drop back to his drink, and there is sudden tension in the way his fingers dance across his wine glass. "And I'm sorry that I didn't tell any of you what was happening. I speak about how the stigma against mental health problems needs to be changed, but apparently I haven't quite internalized that message yet. I thought asking for help for something as… _silly_ as dreams would be foolish. I placed you and Con in a bad situation, where to help me you needed to ignore my wishes, and for that I am deeply sorry."

"I..." This is wrong, completely, utterly wrong, and tears spring to his eyes as he shakes his head emphatically. "No, Eric, you can't apologize, not to _me_, you didn't…"

Eric raises his head and places a finger to his lips. He waits for Grant to cut off his rambling before speaking, voice calm, unperturbed. "That was one of the mistakes I've made. If it's one of the worst mistakes I make in this life, I'll be very happy. Continue with your story, though. What else happened today that you want to apologize for?"

"I didn't do what I told you I would." The words are a whisper, and his mind is suddenly awash in memories of other times, other places, other failures, some his, some Grantaire's, and it doesn't matter because they all mean the same thing. Whether it's dominoes or pamphlets, he can never quite manage to do what Enjolras needs of him. "I wanted to help you, to take some of the strain off your shoulders, and instead I made us look… look _unprofessional_ and _unprepared_."

Eric's brows draw together for a moment before he shakes his head, a bemused smile on his lips. "You really do listen to everything I say, even when it's not worth listening to."

"You're always worth listening to." His hand has reached out without his volition, glances across the top of Enjolras'—Eric's—it doesn't matter, across _his_ free hand before retreating back to Grant's side. "And I'm really sorry. I should have done what I told you I would first, and then gotten to work on everything else."

"You should have." Eric's tone isn't angry. It's simply an admission of fact, of truth, and that makes it sting a little less. "When there's something that needs to happen for the Independents, especially something that needs to happen on a timetable, I want that to take priority."

"I'm… not always very good at prioritizing things. Or multitasking." That had been one of the things that did them in at Barriere du Maine. They had _intended_ to discuss the revolution while playing dominoes, to use the game as a way to build camaraderie before delving into the heady topics that Enjolras seemed to thrive on. What happened contained rather more of the dominoes and less of the politics, and he's never going to forgive himself for letting that happen.

"It's a skill you need to learn. It's something you have to work at. I've said it before and I'll say it again. You're smart, but you don't focus. Perhaps having a planner or creating lists of things you need to do and in what order would help." Eric pauses, raising his eyes from his drink to meet Grant's gaze. "And your apology is accepted. Out of all the possibilities that could have distracted you, at least you chose a worthy one."

"I did?" He smiles without meaning to, happiness aching through his chest at Eric's words. He's forgiven. Though he shouldn't be, though he doesn't deserve it, he's forgiven again.

Except he can't be. He won't let himself be. Not when they haven't even gotten to the crux of the matter, to Eric bleeding on the ground, and it was his fault. He hurt Eric, and he can't ever let that happen again.

"Your actions are what helped bring this entire reincarnation fiasco into the light." Eric takes another sip from his glass. "And that's not something to be underestimated. An enemy that's unknown, unrecognized, is much harder to fight than one that's known. Especially with a creature like this, that seems to revel in pain and isolation for its victims, knowing that we're not alone… letting them know that all their friends are all right… it's important, Grant. What you did, even though you made some mistakes, was incredibly important, and I'm grateful for your work."

There are tears in his eyes again, and he's definitely drunk way too much if he's crying like this at everything. It's what he's always wanted, though. He wants Enjolras to recognize him. He wants Eric to respect him. He wants to be _useful_ to the man, to be something other than a curiosity that Enjolras' eyes always glance over, that Eric delegates to the least stressful tasks when he gives him a task at all.

And he can't be. Even when he manages to help, even when he manages to do something _right_, it all turns out wrong. Enjolras dies. Eric bleeds.

And he'll damn himself to an eternity without them before he'll possibly allow his presence to hurt them.

"I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry I hurt you, Eric, I didn't mean it I'm sorry, Enjolras, I didn't think I didn't want it to end up like that I just—"

"Grant. _Grant._" Eric has one hand over Grant's mouth, one on his arm, but it doesn't manage to stop the flow of words. "Grant, it's all right."

Grant's not sure anything could stop the flow of words, the spilling forth of the agony that started when Eric collapsed and that's been chasing him ever since. Eric and Con had been calm. Eric had been ready to let the whole thing go, to wait for later in the evening when they could have found a safe way to go over everything, but then Grant had to be an idiot. He had to forget to do what he promised to do. He had to mention the damn dreams again. He had to make Eric angry, and because of that Eric almost died.

Because of that Eric and Enjolras fought.

Because of that Eric _bled_, so much red blood everywhere, all over Con's hands, all over Eric's face and on his shirt, so vibrant a color against his pale skin, a perfect artistic contrast and he _can't get it out of his head_—

He doesn't realize what's happening at first. All he has are individual sensations that don't make sense, that won't come together to form a whole.

There is Eric's body, close to his, Eric's hands on both his arms. There is the scent of Eric's skin and hair, the familiar odor of his shampoo and soap, no cologne, not for Eric. There are blue eyes, fire and angry fierceness and terrible sorrow, and there are words that his mind can't parse right now.

And there is the feel of lips, against his cheek. Eric's lips are soft, tentative, holding just slightly too long and in not quite the right shape, but Grant's mind finally manages to put a word to what happened.

Eric just kissed him.

Enjolras just kissed them.

Grant finds that he's stopped talking, at least, all else driven from his mind by that one, simple impossibility.

"Well." Eric pulls back from him slowly, settling down in his chair, though he doesn't release Grant's hand. His mouth turns up in a wry, satisfied smile. "It seems I'm not the only one that works on, then."

"You… you just…" He's not hallucinating this, right? Maybe this is all a dream. Maybe he really is dying of alcohol poisoning. "What the hell, man. You just kissed me."

"Just on the cheek. I'm told it's a perfectly legitimate greeting in some places." The smile fades from Eric's face and his hand tightens slightly around Grant's. "Does it bother you?"

Yes.

No.

Yes.

Oh god, why is he drunk right now?

"You're ace. You don't…"

Grant sways in place, his thoughts separating for the first time in a while from Grantaire's as Grantaire attempts to understand the concepts that Grant's bringing up.

_Asexual?_ Grantaire ponders the word, the meaning, tries to fit it to Enjolras and ends up utterly confused. Thinking of Enjolras and sex, even in the context of him not wanting or needing sex, is too difficult at the moment. _Why did he do that, Grant? Why did he…?_

"I'm sorry." Eric releases Grant's hand, hunching over his drink for a moment before he straightens to face Grant squarely again. "I shouldn't have done that. I didn't ask for any consent from you. You're far too drunk to consent anyway. I'd plead exhaustion, but that's not a good excuse, either. So I'm sorry, and if you want me to call one of the others to take you home I can do that."

"Please stop apologizing to me." He reaches out to take Eric's hand in his. "I don't think we can handle you apologizing again. It's just… wrong, especially to me. And I'm not upset. I'm just… confused."

"That does seem to be the most common emotion at the moment." Eric's fingers tighten around Grant's, allowing and prolonging the contact. "And it's never wrong to apologize if you note a mistake you made. It's how we avoid making mistakes in the future. But my being hurt was not your fault. It's my fault and Enjolras' fault and, at the heart of it, that damn shadow's fault. You and Con and everyone else just had to watch my spectacular self-destruction, and I'm sorry that it hurt you all."

"You're really all right?" He's not going to acknowledge Eric apologizing to him again. "It didn't… nothing really bad is going to happen to you, right?"

"No, Grant. Nothing really bad is going to happen to any of us."

Eric speaks the words calmly, never raising his voice, with that deep, abiding certainty that Grant loves to see from him. His blue eyes stay fixed on Grant's, never wavering, never slipping away to give tell to a lie.

"We're going to be all right." For the first time all evening something in Grant's chest loosens, and he nods. They're going to be fine. Eric's fine, and the rest of them will be, too. Eric even wants him to come home, doesn't want to get rid of him, has followed him here in order to bring him back safe. And that's the last thing he really, desperately owes Eric an apology for. "God, Eric, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done this, should I? I should've just stayed at the rally."

"You should have. You owe an apology to the others, as well, for not being there tonight." Eric tightens his fingers around Grant's hand as he speaks, and that makes it easier to accept the correction. "We all need to work together right now, to try to protect each other and find a way to kill that thing."

"I'll try." It's all he can ever promise, and he never seems to live up to his intentions, but it's the best he can do. "Did you guys come up with a plan?"

"Not yet, no." Eric's jaw tightens. "But we will. For now, we're just making sure everyone has someone there to wake them from the nightmares. We'll see if we can find anything more useful, either in the dreams or in the waking world, over the next few days."

"All right." Nodding to himself, Grant pushes his chair back and stands on unsteady feet. "Wait, does that mean someone's staying with us?"

"No. You've done a fairly good job waking me from the bad nightmares." Eric shrugs, standing as well. His wineglass is still half-full, but he pushes it away. "If you want, I'm sure I could ask Con to stay over, but he'll be more comfortable sleeping at his own place than on our floor. And I want everyone to get as much sleep as they can."

"Are you sure?" It's hard to keep the room in focus, and walking to the car is going to be a disaster. He should probably go throw up before they leave, because throwing up on Eric would not be the nicest way to repay him for all his kindness. "Because you were kind of screaming really bad last night, and I'm really drunk, and I don't want something bad to happen to you. Not because of me. I want you safe. I'm not sure I want Con glaring at me all night, but I want you safe, and if I have to have him glaring at me to keep you safe—"

Eric smiles, taking Grant's arm and tugging him away from the stability of the chair and out onto the tilting plane of the world. Gravity apparently isn't working right, because everything seems to have a tendency to lean to the left that he's pretty sure wasn't there earlier in the evening.

Eric's voice is a soft murmur at his side, but it's always easy for him to pick out Eric's words, no matter what other madness is going on around them. "I'm going to be fine, Grant. Let the shadow come at me tonight. This time, we're ready for it."

_You haven't asked him why he kissed you._ Grantaire's voice is a quiet, confused slur in the back of his mind. _This is important, Grant. What does our wild warrior want with us?_

"He wants us to behave. He wants us to help." The world seems to lurch to the side as Grant tilts his head to look at Eric. Definitely going to need to stop in the bathroom. "Anything else he wants from us, he'll tell us, and until then, we'll just be happy to have him here."

_That much is very, very true. _Grantaire sighs the acceptance, though he wants to argue. He wants to understand, to have some guess at what Enjolras' actions could mean in this strange new world that they're in, but Grant doesn't know and they should let Eric get home and sleep. So Grantaire will be satisfied with Grant's non-answer for the moment.

Grantaire's thoughts bleed back into Grant's own, and they smile hazily at Eric as he leads them toward the door.

XXX

_What are you thinking of doing?_

Enjolras' voice is quiet in his head, wary still, though it's a different kind of wariness.

_You know what I'm considering. At least as much as I know._ He shrugs, draping a sheet over Grant before standing again. Removing his hair-tie and stripping out of his shirt, he moves over to the light and hesitates before turning it off.

_I'm really quite certain _now_ is not the proper time to decide that you want to try these romantic entanglements out._ There's a mildly exasperated note to Enjolras' thoughts, and Eric allows himself a smile.

It's better than the frustration that still rises when he feels Enjolras' fear or disapproval of the situation. It isn't Enjolras' fault. He's handling this much better than most nineteenth-century men likely would.

It's still frustrating to have doubts and hesitancies that he never expected to have suddenly thrust into his own mind. For as long as he can remember he's always assumed that he would never want to take a lover. He's never felt the urge to sleep with someone, never looked at someone and found them sexually attractive, never needed to have that connection with another. He's not against the idea of sex and has no fear of it, not like some asexuals he's talked with, but it's a drive that seems to be completely missing from his own psychological and biological make-up.

He had vaguely assumed that if he ever did agree to take a lover it wouldn't matter what gender they were. He's never been one to notice gender or physical attractiveness, a truth that led to many failed attempts to mock him in middle and high school, and since any sex involved would most likely be for the other person's benefit…

And he's getting far too ahead of himself now, letting Enjolras' uncertainties drive him farther along paths he hasn't properly considered.

The kiss had been an impulsive act, born out of sorrow and fear as he watched Grant fall apart in front of him, his words seemingly incapable of reaching the man. It had been a combination of Cori's actions and words earlier and his own frustrated helplessness latching onto any ideas that presented themselves. It hadn't been sexual.

But could it be? Will Grant want it to be?

He doesn't know. To either question, he doesn't know.

_And what do _you_ want?_ There's still that note of wariness in Enjolras' voice, that preparing to deal with something that he suspects he's _really_ not going to like.

_At the risk of sounding like a broken record, I don't know._ He hesitates, looking between Grant, already snoring slightly, and his own bed. _It's not exactly what I was prepared to handle when the day started._

_To be fair, I think neither of us was in the best shape to handle much of anything when the day started._

Eric pauses again, his thoughts side-tracked. It's… nice, hearing Enjolras say that they were both hurting. It's nice having Enjolras _include_ him, consider him as more than just a potentially hazardous challenge to be dispensed with as succinctly as possible or as a lost child, far out of his depth.

Though he _has _been far out of his depth, and he _has _acted childish. _I owe you an apology, too. I'm still withholding judgment on some things, but I've been cruel to you without even realizing it. I've let that monster use me._

_You didn't know I was real, Eric. I was interfering with your work._ Enjolras hesitates, his accent thickening again. _I can't say that I would necessarily have handled something similar with all that much more grace._

_We'll do better in the future._ Reaching a quick decision, Eric grabs the pillow and sheet off his bed, marches over to Grant's bed, and shoves Grant over to the far side.

_What are we doing?_ There's a note of mild exasperation in Enjolras' voice again.

"Sleeping." Curling up under his own sheet, trying to take up as little of the bed as possible, he smiles.

_Why are we sleeping on Grantaire's bed? Grant's?_

_Because if we start dreaming and things go badly, I'm hoping that we'll kick him awake before we start screaming._ Eric closes his eyes. _I think we're going to fair much better tonight than we have other nights, but staying close to the one who could wake us is an added precaution._

Enjolras doesn't believe him, not entirely, but the man's not willing to risk starting another fight by rifling through Eric's mind to get the whole truth.

Eric finds himself smiling again. He could grow to like Enjolras, he thinks, if they can keep things like this. If they can be allies when they need to be, and try to keep themselves separate from the other as much as possible…

_You're not thinking of dating him just to annoy me, are you?_ There's a sharpness to Enjolras' voice that hadn't been there before, a note of disgust that jerks Eric's eyes open again.

_No._ He frowns. _It wouldn't be just to _annoy_ you, anyway. It would be… a separation, something I can do that you haven't done, something to keep us… different._

_That's not fair to him._ That note of censure is still in Enjolras' voice. _If you decide to do something… odd, do it for yourself. Don't consider me in your plans, especially not in a way that's unfair to the other party._

_It's hard not to consider you. I seem to be stuck with you for the foreseeable future._

_And you know that thinking about this is difficult for me. It's… alien to me._ Enjolras' mental presence draws back, pulls away, ill at ease. _But I don't want to be the reason you decide to start fucking Grantaire or Courfeyrac or Combeferre. That's not fair to them._

_Enjolras, shut up._ He really doesn't want to deal with this right now. It was just a kiss. It's just a string of silly thoughts, brought about by Cori telling him things he should probably have already figured out. _I'm not going to do anything to hurt our friends. Have at least that much faith in me. Now let me sleep. I need to sleep so we can go kill a shadow monster._

_All right._ Enjolras relaxes, much more at ease with this topic, ready and able to fight now that he knows more about the enemy and what it wants. _Let's kill a shadow._

For the first time in a long time, Eric falls asleep with a smile on his face.


	17. Part Seventeen: A Good Night's Meal

**Author's Note:** Two things: **first**, this chapter is very PG-13 for dark themes (death, blood, torture, other fun shadow-time activities), for some profanity, and for a rather mild make-out session. **Second**, if anyone has a Dreamwidth account and wants to interact with Grant or Eric, my beta set up accounts for each of them! Just subscribe to artistwithoutacause (Grant) or agentofagency (Eric) and have fun with the guys. The accounts will be updated according to what's happening in the story, and we'd like for people who want to interact to try not to get too meta (we want them to stay in-character), but it should be fun for anyone who wants to do it.

_Part Seventeen: A Good Night's Meal_

Finny manages to get the kitchen clean, get Meme to settle down in her bed, and arrange sleeping places for everyone by eleven. It's better than some nights, and he sighs as he allows himself to sink down on the couch and close his eyes for a few minutes. Maybe he'll even have the energy to call one of the others or read a bit before going to bed. Con, Cori, and Eric have all been good about keeping him abreast of what's happening back at school, sending him their fliers and pamphlets and the articles they've written, linking him to anything interesting that's quoted about them on various news sites. He wishes he could be there, feels bad that simply staying on top of what's going on has been difficult enough, but Meme and her children need him right now.

At least Con and Cori understand that, and Eric's seemed to be handling the whole thing pretty well.

Finny's phone chooses that moment to ring, and he pulls it out of his back pocket and blinks at it in surprise. A tired smile breaks across his face as he looks at the caller identity. Flipping it open, he stands and debates where he should go to take the call. "Hey, Con. Think of the devil and he shall contact you. It's good to hear from you, though it's a little bit later than usual."

"Yes, well…" Con trails off. "It's good to hear from you, too. Are you available to talk for a little bit?"

"Yeah." Finny waves at Sara, who's just a year and a half younger than him, to stay put as he heads out into the back yard. It doesn't matter, he supposes, but the youngest of Meme's pack are sleeping, and he wants to be able to focus while he talks to Con. "I'm just getting set to wind down for the night. Anything important?"

There's silence on the other end of the line, a burst of static, and then Cori's voice, grainy due to the use of the speakerphone but recognizable. "Yo, Finny! Missed me?"

"Anyone who knows you always misses you." The night is warm, the sky mostly clear, and Meme's small yard smells of flowers and green, growing things. Despite the houses pressing all around them, it feels comfortable and safe here.

"Such flattery. I knew there was a reason I liked having you around, other than your charming good looks." Cori's voice softens. "As much as I'd love to just banter on, though, do you mind giving us an update on how Meme's doing?"

"About as well as a woman who just lost her husband in a car crash and may lose the kids she loves to state-mandated stupidity should be expected to do." Finny sighs, a headache starting to build between his eyes again. "We're managing. She's tough. I don't need to tell you guys that. And it's better now that she's out of the hospital and we don't have to argue that even though we're not blood relatives we're the ones she's going to want to see."

"You'd think common human decency would be enough to make that a non-issue." Con's voice is a low growl, angrier than Finny's used to hearing from him. "Why do we always have to fight things like this? Isn't adoption something that people should be _happy_ about, be _encouraging_?"

"But we're not adopted. We're foster kids, and there are over a dozen of us." Finny doesn't want to defend the people who tried to keep him from Meme. He doesn't want to relive the anger and frustration of the last few weeks. So he's not going to. Con and Cori should understand, and if they don't he'll talk to them about it some other time.

"Love's a hell of a lot more complicated than blood or legally recognized relationships." Cori's tone is quiet, still. "But I'm glad she's home with you now."

"Yeah." Finny sighs, tilting his head back to study the washed-out stars. "Yeah, me too."

When Con speaks up again, he sounds more like himself, cool and collected. "Would it be any help if Cori and I came down to see you tomorrow, or would it just be more stress?"

"I…" He doesn't want to drag them away from what they're doing. Their work with Eric is important. Getting ready for classes is important—getting ready for freshman orientation is important.

On the other hand, they've known Meme for almost as long as he has. He'd been an orphan in the foster care system for just over eight years when he ended up being assigned to her care. None of the homes he'd been in before had known what to do with him. He was expecting it to be the same here.

But it wasn't. Meme—short for Memere, _grandmother_, what she wanted all her foster kids to call her—hadn't assumed anything about him. She hadn't seen his grim face, his rough hands, and assumed he was a punk, a gang-banger, a lost cause; she hadn't heard his short, harsh speeches about the broken system and assumed he was either mocking her or dangerous.

It took her two months and a lot of luck, but she managed to get him enrolled in a charter high school, a school where the hodge-podge collection of knowledge that he'd given himself from reading everything he could get his hands on actually came in handy.

That was where he met Con and Cori. The two had already been close friends. They had predicted he would get harassed for being a scholarship boy rather than a paying member, and they had been right.

They tried to offer him their protection.

He refused.

The three of them ended up going home bloody twice in the first two weeks of school, but by the end of the month they were the best friends he'd ever made. It was almost like they'd known each other even before they met with how easily they clicked, how much they seemed to just understand and accept about him.

As his friends, they'd seen a fair amount of Meme, too, and he knows that she likes them. Given everything that's happened… "I think she'd like to see you, if you guys could make it. I know it's a few hours drive both ways, and that you've got to be crazy busy with the semester getting ready to start—"

"Finny." Cori cuts him off abruptly. "There is nothing the two of us would rather do than see you tomorrow. I promise."

"While I appreciate the sentiment, it… sounds vaguely cryptic and threatening when you put it that way." He's sure Cori hadn't intended it to sound cryptic, but there had been a tense undercurrent to his voice that didn't quite fit the upbeat words. "Is something going on that you guys want to talk to me about?"

"Yes. It's—ow! Hell, Con, that actually hurt." Cori's voice is filled with injured indignation. "We do want to talk to him! What do you want me to say?"

Con's voice is that low growl again, threatening and dangerous. "I don't want you to say anything that could make things… bad."

Even over the speaker-phone Finny can hear Cori's sigh. "Con, chill out or I'm sending you back to Eric's, whether he wants you there or not. At this rate you're going to be intolerable by morning."

Closing his eyes and shaking his head, Finny allows a sigh to slip out. What's happening up there? "Are we in legal trouble? Is that what this is about and why we can't speak openly?"

"It's… complicated." Con sighs, too, and Finny can picture the way he's sitting, the way he's either toying with his glasses or pressing at that spot between his eyes where his headaches usually start. "It's also something we should really talk about in person."

"Do you need me to head back up?" He chews on his lip, calculating what he'll need to do if he has to leave quickly. Sara's already planning on taking over things when he heads back to school Wednesday for the semester. If he goes shopping tomorrow morning, sits down with her to discuss what they can legally do and what they can't, shows her the schedule of doctor appointments and makes sure she understands that she's to send him copies of every damn legal document they give her so that Eric and Cori can help him make sure he isn't missing anything—

"Were you going to be back for the semester, or do you need to stay there?" Cori asks the question.

"I'm coming back. I thought about staying here, but as soon as Meme saw how late into August it's getting she started asking me when I'm going back to school." He had considering arguing with her, pointing out that she needed him here, but he didn't want to get into a shouting match her. Not right now. "I'm probably going to head down here on weekends to see her, though."

"We'll come with you, if you want." Con pauses. "We're always here if you need us. You know that, right, Finny? You can talk to us about anything."

"We're here for you." Cori's voice is more cheerful than Con's but no less caring or sincere. "No matter what's happening, no matter how difficult or weird it is, we're here for you. Eric and the rest of the Independents are, too."

"I know." He draws a deep, steadying breath as their words bring a shaky smile to his face. Idiots. Silly idiots, saying what everyone knows. "But I'm all right. We're making it through. It sounds like you guys might be having even more excitement on your end than I'm having on mine."

Static is his only answer for a few seconds before Cori continues. "Even things that it might seem… silly to want to talk about, dreams, nightmares, if you need to, you can talk to u—don't you dare, Conlan! I will hit you back!"

Finny finds both his eyebrows are raised as high as they'll go. "All right. I'm apparently going to have to see you guys very soon, because Con's developed an abusive streak. Seriously, can't you tell me anything about what's going on?"

Con sighs. "Not safely, no. And don't get the wrong ideas from his over-reaction. I was going to hit him with a pillow, and he deserves it. But what he said is right, overall. Anything you need to talk about, anything you feel like you _can_ talk about safely, we're here to listen to it."

It's tempting, for a moment. He _has_ been having nightmares, dreams of Meme dying, of losing track of all the other kids, both the ones his age and older who have come back to help her through this and the younger ones that they're trying to keep with Meme.

He's been having nightmares of _himself_ dying, of Con and Cori dying, of all the Independents dying, though those dreams don't make much sense. Those dreams have something… wrong about them. There are words and thoughts and feelings in those dreams that don't… _belong_ to him, and something… _else_. Something dark and cruel and… _hungry_.

He doesn't like to think about those dreams.

He doesn't _need_ to think about them, not right now. They're rare things, anyway, happening only once or twice a week, and he draws in a deep breath and forces a smile. Even if the other two can't see him, people seemed to hear it in your voice when you smiled. "I'm doing all right, like I said. I'm tired, but who wouldn't be? I don't know how Meme managed to keep us all out of trouble. It's definitely a full-time job. But Sara and Sam are going to take over, and Kevin says he'll take time off in a week to come and make sure they're doing all right. I'll be back with you guys before you know it."

"And we'll be down there to see you tomorrow." Con says the words with a finality that Finny knows better than to protest. "It's only a two and a half hour drive. We can bring some of your things back with us, if you want, make moving back a little easier."

"All right." He'll be glad to see them, in all honesty. "I'll be here."

"Until tomorrow, then." Cori's voice contains all the joy and good cheer of his usual grin. "Take care of yourself, Finny. And remember, we're all alive and we're all here for you."

"_Cori—_" The note of exasperation in Con's voice is familiar; the fear isn't.

"Say goodnight, Con, so we can let the man get some rest." The static overlay of speakerphone fades.

Con's fear hasn't disappeared. "You're all right, Finny?"

"Same as I was a few seconds ago." Finny frowns. "You know you two are acting incredibly bizarre, right? There had better be a really good explanation for this, Con."

"There's a lot of explanations. How many are good…" Con sighs. "As much as I'm loathe to say this with him right next to me, Cori's right. We're here for you. We're fine."

"So you keep saying, and so I generally believe." Finny frowns. "What I'm trying to figure out is why you _wouldn't_ be there for me and why you _wouldn't _be fine."

Con pauses for so long that Finny starts to think he might actually get some answers. Or that the phone's been disconnected. "I can't talk about it over the phone, not without knowing how much you already know. I'm sorry. So sleep well, and we'll be there in the morning when we can talk freely."

"I'm looking forward to this for more than one reason now." Shaking his head, Finny decides that it's not worth worrying about what's happening with them. They're clearly more worried about him than themselves, anyway. He'll get his answers tomorrow. "Drive safe, and I'll see you tomorrow."

"Sleep well." It's more of a command than a goodbye, but the call disconnects afterward.

Putting his phone back in his pocket, Finny shakes his head.

Tomorrow should be really interesting, at least.

XXX

Jona tests the pressure in the air mattress once more before turning off the little motorized pump and unplugging it. "There. That should work for the night, at least. Until Flutter manages to get in here and pop it with her claws, at least."

"I'd say we'll just keep her out of the room, but you seem to have trouble keeping the cat away from anything." Lyle's arms wrap around him from behind, and Jona leans back into the embrace.

Never mind that it's almost a hundred degrees outside. Never mind that even with the air conditioning in the apartment it's still muggy and warm.

He'll gladly suffer heat stroke if it means getting to have Lyle close to him for a few minutes.

"What melodramatic medical drama are you playing out in that head of yours?" Lyle's fingers trace along the side of his jaw, Lyle's words a soft whisper in his ear.

"Nothing important." Jona smiles, relaxing his shoulders to sink even further into the embrace. "Just that it's really hot outside right now. And that there's something else really hot in the room that makes everything else better."

Lyle laughs, a rumbling chuckle against Jona's back. "You have strange taste, Jona, but I'm quite grateful for it."

"It's not strange. There are lots of bald people that're hot. It just takes a certain skull shape. And you definitely have it."

"Oh do I?" There's a teasing lilt to Lyle's voice, and Jona shivers as Lyle plants a kiss at the corner of his jaw and begins slowly, methodically working his way up to Jona's ear.

Jona pulls away before Lyle can nip at the bottom of his ear, not trusting his body to behave. "Careful. We don't want to make this incredibly awkward for Barry. Or for, you know… other us."

_I will be very quiet and not interfere._ Jona's voice is part entertained, part yearning. _It's Lesgle. Do whatever you wish with him._

_It's not… weird for you?_ Jona tries to find the right words to ask his question without insulting Joly. _You're not… I mean… wasn't… _this_… taboo for you?_

_It was for our society. For us…_ The amusement fades, tainted by grief and sorrow. _We were what we were. We shared a mistress. We shared lodgings. We shared a bed, though we were quiet about it. I loved him, in every sense of the word. It's good to know that some things will apparently never change._

Apparently not, and Jona leans back into Lyle again. When Lyle places his hands around him, Jona clasps them in a tight hold. "Do you think Maria was Musichetta before?"

For several seconds Lyle's quiet, his chin resting on Jona's shoulder, his arms tight and comforting around Jona's stomach. Shrugging, he finally speaks. "I don't know. And I think… we shouldn't let it matter."

Jona nods slowly. "Because we love her."

"We—they—loved Musichetta. We love Maria." Lyle places a gentle kiss on Jona's cheek. "If they are the same, then we're incredibly lucky bastards to find such an amazing woman in two lives. If they aren't… if they aren't, we're incredibly lucky bastards to have found two such incredible women."

"Yeah." Turning in Lyle's arms, Jona grabs Lyle's head with both hands and gives him a brief, fierce kiss. "Given the two people I'm sleeping with and the friends that I have, I think I'm one incredibly lucky bastard."

Lyle grins, one arm going around Jona's neck and one around his waist to pull him close again. Jona doesn't resist Lyle pulling him forward, reveling in the feel of Lyle's lips against his, the firmness of Lyle's body, the feel of Lyle's skin hot under his hands.

It would be better if Maria was here. It would be better if all three of them were together.

But right now, after the day that they've had, this is good, too.

The sound of Barry clearing his throat in the doorway causes Jona to jerk his head up guiltily, and he pulls away from Lyle, somehow managing to knock them both over in the process.

"I'd tell you to get a room, but this is your room." Barry's grinning, an expression of good humor that makes Jona's face only heat more. "Did you want me to go out again? I'm sure I can find a good bar fight if you want an hour or so alone."

"No, that's all right." Lyle picks himself up off the carpet, poking at a skinned elbow experimentally. "It's already well after midnight, and I don't want to bail you out of jail tomorrow morning. We should sleep."

Jona blinks between the two other men. "Did you… I mean, we haven't… Barry, did—"

"Your girlfriend's hot and your boyfriend's smart. You've got good taste." Shrugging, Barry pokes at the air mattress with his toe before gingerly settling down on it. "It doesn't matter to me what or who you do, though now that this is apparently out in the open I do reserve the right to tease you mercilessly about it. Same as I tease Eric about not being into anyone, or Cori about being into everyone with a pulse and a penis. Sound good?"

When Lyle doesn't seem to be answering, Jona forces himself to nod slowly. His voice is soft when he speaks, relieved and grateful. "Yeah. Sounds great."

He waits for Lyle and Barry to crawl into their beds before turning off the light and carefully making his way over to his.

Lyle's voice is the one that breaks the silence. "Everyone sleep well."

"Same. I'm going to be very upset if I wake up and either of you is dead or something." There's a gruff, frightened note to Barry's voice.

"We'll be all right." Lyle speaks quietly. "We don't even know it's going to come for one of us, anyway. And if it does, knowing what it is, what it's done… well, you have my permission to punch it into next week, Barry."

"I'll do that and enjoy every minute of it." The fear is gone from Barry's voice, replaced by his usual good humor. "I might even figure out how to drop its bleeding corpse into one of your dreams for you to get all giddy over."

"Sounds great." Jona forces his fingers to unclench their hold on his sheet. "I'll do an autopsy to make sure that it's really dead and confirm cause of death as a sorely needed beat-down."

The others laugh, though Jona knows that the joke isn't all that funny, and the tension in the room eases another notch.

He should probably just let it go at that. He should probably just go to sleep.

But he doesn't know what's going to happen in his dreams. He doesn't know what he'll see, or what he'll be able to do.

He doesn't know for sure if he'll ever wake up.

"I love you guys." The words are a whisper, full of all the emotion of the last day. "The rest of the Independents, too. I just… I love you guys."

Lyle answers first, easily. "I know. I love you all, too."

After a few second's hesitation Barry answers, too. "Same. Now go to sleep and stab the shadow with a scalpel or something, all right?"

Jona smiles and closes his eyes, allowing his body to relax and trying to slow his thoughts.

No matter what happens, they're going to go down fighting.

XXX

Enjolras doesn't have time to think. All he has time to do is act, to swing up into his chosen refuge and start aiming at the men seeking to swarm over the barricade. Shadows slide among the soldiers, and a damp wind that smells of gunpowder and blood and rot swirls mist and smoke across his field of vision.

He kills a half-dozen men before they even have an idea of where he is. He kills more when they find his position, fighting until his sword breaks off at the hilt, the blade lost in the body of one of his enemies.

It doesn't make a difference. There are too many enemies, and though he uses every weapon he can get his hands on, clubbing one man to death with the butt of his empty carbine, eventually he is left without any recourse other than his fists.

Finally they capture him, bind his hands behind his back, drag him by the hair and force him to his knees in front of the broken barricade.

An officer speaks to him. He almost doesn't hear, his eyes caught on the rest of the Amis, bound as he is, bloody, in various states of consciousness.

"—for your crimes, they will pay."

_Always, always, for your crimes they will pay._

The shadows hiss the word into his ear, their touch cold, draining, and he renews his struggles against the ropes and against the men holding him.

(_–right, use the right damn language, Eric, there we go, and you need to _listen_ to me, Enjolras. Listen._)

They drag Combeferre forward first. Blood is already trickling from his mouth with each breath, his shirt a mass of red from where the bayonets stabbed him—

(_You know that's how he really died, stabbed, not shot, wake up, Enjolras, break its hold—_)

Combeferre's eyes are open, though. Open and frightened, fixed on Enjolras, and Enjolras has to stay calm—

The shot comes before he's ready, before he can think of any movement to do or words to say that will bring comfort and solace, and something in his chest _hurts_.

Something in his _mind_ hurts, in his heart, in his thoughts—

(_In our _soul_, it hurts, fuck, it _hurts)

And a soft keening cry of pain escapes his lips before he can stop it.

_You did it, didn't you? I was right in my accusations._ The shadows have arms, arms that wrap around him, and claws scrape against his shirt, slice at his skin. _You murder them every time, don't you? You always watch them die. You bring nothing but pain and—_

(_Unreal: anything it says. Real: they're alive. Unreal: this execution. Real: me and you. Real: the shadow. Come on, Enjolras, listen—_)

It's hard. He trusts his senses. He trusts himself. He has always trusted himself. But he doesn't want this to be real, and that makes it slightly easier to force his mind to drag up the memories of how they _actually_ died, of the last months of torture.

_Kill it, Enjolras._

He doesn't need Eric's command. This thing has tortured his friends for the last four months. This thing has turned the barricade, something terribly _right_, into something that is simply _terrible_. It has done its best to desecrate the things that Enjolras spent his whole life fighting for.

And it's close enough that he can hurt it.

He doesn't scream as he attacks. He's done enough screaming for this monster. He simply drives his head back into the creature's face, pulls his arms free of the bonds that are suddenly as thin as gossamer, and turns to fight.

There shouldn't be a sword in his hand, but there is, the hilt a perfect fit, the balance of the blade finer than any blade that Enjolras' ever held before. He swings at the creature.

The shadow disappears between one breath and the next, fades back into the rest of the darkness along the barricade. Shadows that seem to twist and dance in response to a flame, and Enjolras finds his eyes falling to the sword in his hand once more.

It looks perfectly normal, when his eyes are on it. It's a fine piece of craftsmanship, nothing more. But when he isn't looking at it, when he's using the weapon against the shadow or catches glimpses of it out of the corner of his eye, blue flames seem to shiver and shine their way along the edge.

_Interesting._ Eric jerks their eyes back up, to the now-empty land surrounding them. _But not what we need to focus on. Where is it?_

"I don't know." Enjolras turns in a slow circle, wary, waiting for the monster to attack again.

_It ran from us._ There is utter elation in Eric's voice. _Did you see that?_

Enjolras allows himself a small, grim smile. "I saw it."

Eric calms, slowly, the utter silence surrounding them draining away any joy and mirth. _Does this mean we can kill it?_

"I don't know." Enjolras lowers the sword slowly. "I hope so."

_How did you make the sword?_

Enjolras lifts the blade, studying it. "I don't know."

_Well, I suppose that's the answer of the day._ Eric is entertained rather than exasperated with the response, at least, the joy of having at least frightened the creature still present. _It would also be nice if we can figure out how we broke the ropes._

"I needed them to be gone." Enjolras studies his wrists, where the skin is raw and red from the tight bindings. Now that he's acknowledged the injuries they hurt, the itching, irritating pain of bruised and scraped flesh that will take days to fade. His chest also hurts, the sting of sweat dripping into the myriad scratches that the shadow gave him.

It shouldn't hurt, though, because it's not actually his skin. He doesn't have skin anymore. He doesn't _exist_ anymore, not anywhere that pain and injuries could be considered real. He is a phantom, a figment that survives only in Eric's dreams and thoughts.

_You are a curse._ The words are a whisper on the wind as the world dims around them. _You are a murderer and a bringer of death and a curse on—_

Enjolras opens his mouth to protest, but the words that emerge aren't his. They aren't in French, even, and he finds them incomprehensible.

Eric's words are fire, burning without shouting. "Shut up. The more you talk, the more certain I am that you're lying about everything."

Enjolras jumps back, snarling, anything more that Eric would have said cut off. Eric offers a translation for his speech meekly a moment later, though, and at least Enjolras can appreciate the sentiment behind the exclamation.

_Sorry._ Eric's apology is heartfelt. _Didn't mean to do that to you. I know it's not pleasant._

"That's… quite all right." Night has fallen on the barricade again, a silent night, no movement other than that which they create to break the unnatural stillness all around them. "Just… let's try not to do that again to each other. Ask first, unless something very bad will happen if we don't."

The shadow's voice is a coarse whisper, filled with impotent, angry frustration. _You will destroy each other. You will see your crimes, Enjolras, played over and over again, and he will reject you for them. He will—_

_No._ Eric's voice is quiet now but still full of certainty. _Never again. We're in this together, Enjolras, and we're going to kill it._

"If we can ever find it." Enjolras stalks slowly along the barricade, stabbing experimentally at every shadow. None of them move as they shouldn't. None of them pull away from him.

None of them show a hint of baleful red eyes, or have claws that have tasted his blood.

And then, between one breath and the next, the night is gone and men are streaming over the barricade, Courfeyrac is calling for his assistance, and—

_Not real._ Eric's words are sharp in his head, drowning out the cries of his men as they die. _It's not real, Enjolras. Don't react to it._

So he doesn't.

If he hadn't been the shadow's plaything for the last four months, the ten minutes that follow would probably be the worst ten minutes of his life.

It knows him. It knows his friends. It knows, now, that they are the way to hurt him, even more clearly than it had already guessed when it showed him their true deaths over and over again.

Combeferre comes to him, one eye gone, blood all down his face, begging for his assistance.

Joly collapses at his feet, gut-shot, screaming for someone to make the pain stop.

Feuilly calls him a coward, a traitor, and is shot in the back while making the accusations.

_Not real. It's not real._ Eric's words are a constant background hum in his mind, a cloak between him and the visions that the creature gives him. _We're real. You and me, we're real, and the others are fine._

He held Combeferre in his arms, just this evening.

He talked with Joly at Eric's apartment.

He will ensure that Feuilly is safe, as soon as they can reasonably reach his reincarnated counterpart.

_Not real. Don't react._ Eric's words are a command and a plea all in one.

Bossuet bleeds to death from a cannon shot, calling for Joly all the while.

Grantaire staggers out of the Corinthe and is shot once, twice, a half-dozen times, slowly bleeding his way out as he crawls toward Enjolras.

Courfeyrac has his throat slit by a Guardsman when he's only five paces in front of Enjolras, and a wash of warm blood runs down over Enjolras' body.

_Not real!_ Eric's words are a scream, now, a pained, determined litany, and Eric holds the muscles in his legs in place when Enjolras would have rushed forward to defend his men. _It's not real. They're fine. Don't give it what it wants. Don't hurt._

He doesn't want to. He _tries _not to, but they're dying in front of him, his friends, and he needs to find a way to stop it, he needs to—

_It's going to hurt again._ There's a grim edge to Eric's voice now. _If we don't manage this, Enjolras, if we let it keep pushing you, we're going to fall into… into whatever wound there is._

He can't. He mustn't.

But he has to watch. He has to keep his eyes open for the shadow, for the monster that he needs to kill, yet everywhere he looks there is only more death. Always death, his punishment for doing what had to be done, and—

_Close your eyes._ There's a desperation behind Eric's words now, a fear that hadn't been there before. _Enjolras, close your eyes. Listen to me. Just to me. Drown it out. Ignore it._

"We need to keep watch. We need—"

He flinches as Jehan's corpse tumbles from the top of the barricade to land at his feet. The poet's eyes and hands are gone, sawed away, and—

_Close your eyes!_

He listens.

His other option is to fight. His other option is to interact with this world that it gives him, this nightmare place of death and despair, to risk accepting it as real again, to risk giving it what it wants.

To do nothing, though, to stand still through what it shows him… that rips at his heart more than all the lost battles in the universe could.

_They're safe._ Eric murmurs the words over and over, a quiet susurrus of reassurance that is as much for Eric's benefit as Enjolras'. _They're safe._

_And how are we to attack it?_ It's easier to think, now, without the images that it shows him. It's easier to ignore the screams, the cries, to tell himself that they're not real when he's wrapped in the darkness with his strange doppelganger. _How are we to fight or defend ourselves?_

_We _are_ defending ourselves._ Even when he speaks other words, the images of their friends from last night continue to play through their mind. _Barry—Bahorel—said it. This thing wants us hurt and reeling. It's showing us the worst things it can imagine. Well, we're not giving it the satisfaction of reacting. Besides, both times it's tried to do… whatever it's planning on doing, it's touched you. If it gets close enough to touch us, it'll be close enough for us to hurt it._

Enjolras nods, slowly. It's a dangerous plan, but it will have to do until they can think of something better.

After an interminable amount of time, the sounds of battle fade.

A hand touches his arm, and Enjolras opens his eyes without thinking.

Combeferre smiles at him, expression warm and welcoming. "Come, Enjolras. Sit and talk with us before the meeting."

_Not real._ Eric's voice is tired, starting to wear thin.

_I know._ Enjolras leans back against the wall and slides down it, his eyes taking in the Musain, his friends, everything he wants to have be real and that he knows can't be. Closing his eyes, he rests his head on his knees, keeping the sword gripped tight in his right hand. _I know._

They try to cajole him, at first, gentle tugs on his arm, gentle words, entreaties about his health.

When that doesn't work, the shadow has their words turn to taunts, accusations of cowardice, of abandonment, of complacency.

He would rather hear those blatant falsehoods for days then spend another minute listening to the shadow's too-good mimics imitate his friend's worry for him.

As if it can pick the thought from his head, the taunts change once more to concern, to soft murmurs questioning his sanity, to Courfeyrac and Combeferre arguing over what to do with him, how much damage his breaking will do to their cause, and he has to keep his eyes tightly closed.

_Not real._ Eric's voice is the barest whisper, now. _It's not real, Enjolras, and I'm so sorry it's putting you through all this._

He needs something to fight. He needs some way to fight. He needs to find a way to make this nightmare end.

Finally, though, silence descends. It is a quiet such as he hasn't heard in… such as he hasn't heard since he died, the silence of a truly empty room, and he raises his head and opens his eyes slowly.

They are in the Musain, in their back room, and no one else is present. _Nothing_ else is present, the shadows just shadows, and he thinks he understands, now, what Joly's double meant about there being a sharpness to the dreams when the shadow was present.

_It left._ Eric's voice is still worn. _It's not here anymore, is it? It didn't try to attack us. It just… left._

"It attacked us." Enjolras hauls himself to his feet, slowly, the sword still clutched in his right hand. There is no fire to the blade now, though, no shine when he isn't watching it properly. "But it couldn't get what it wanted. It didn't feel safe enough to move in for the kill."

_It's a victory._ There's determination in Eric's voice again. _We kept it from getting what it wanted. We scared it. Next time…_

"Next time we'll kill it." The words feel hollow, somehow, and he raises his left fist to press hard against his chest. The scratches that the beast's claws left still ache and sting, though sometime during the last round of torture the rope burns around his wrists faded away.

_We'll kill it._ There's more determination in Eric's words, though he's worried about how easily it almost shoved them into whatever wound it is that's haunting their soul. _We're figuring things out. We can arm ourselves now. We can scare it. The next logical step is to kill it._

"We'll kill it." The words have more certainty in them, and he manages a faint smile as he settles into one of the chairs at an empty table.

The sounds of voices, familiar, achingly, terribly familiar, comes from the hallway.

"Not real." He whispers the words to himself, forcing himself back to his feet. "They're not real."

_I think…_ Eric hesitates, torn. _It's gone, Enjolras. This is just a dream now._

Just a dream.

Those words shouldn't make him want to laugh.

The others come through the door, pause, and then greet him with smiles, welcomes, cries of pleasant surprise.

_Do you want this?_ Eric's voice is a quiet whisper in the back of his mind.

Wanting isn't the right word. He _needs_ them, right now, to see them whole, to see them healthy. He needs to talk with them, to listen to them, to have a moment of peace after the horror that's been plaguing them.

He shouldn't, though. Not here. Not in the shadow's realm, when it could return at any time.

_I'll keep watch._ He can barely comprehend Eric's quiet thoughts. _I'll be here, if it comes back. We'll face it together. But right now…_

Combeferre's hand brushes his as Courfeyrac grabs his left arm and drags him over to one of the chairs, chattering cheerfully already.

_Right now, Enjolras, you need this._

It's a falsehood. It's a mimicry of the people he really needs. It's not something he should indulge in.

But right now, it's the best Eric can offer him.

He doesn't fight as Courfeyrac pushes him down into a chair. He turns and shares a quiet smile with Combeferre, and any thoughts that this isn't reality vanish from his mind.

For the first time in far too long, Enjolras loses himself in a pleasant dream, free of blood and death and wariness.

XXX

Feuilly should probably be sleeping.

Enjolras had told them to sleep, and he knows that he will need all of his wits and strength about him when the fighting renews.

Sleep is out of the question at the moment, though, not after all that's happened. Not after the old man, the execution of the murderer, and his fingers tighten on the nail in his hand.

He can't say what's going to happen. He can't predict the future, but there had been a terrible finality to Enjolras' speech after the execution, and events have not been unfolding as smoothly as they should have. Those with power who said they would come to the aid of any insurgency haven't, and he fears that the morning's light won't change that.

So he will stay awake. He will savor every last moment of life that he has, and he will leave his mark as deeply etched into this world as he can.

_It's a lie, you know._

The shadows whisper the taunt, and he jerks his head up, reaching for his weapon. There is no one that he can see near him, though, and only a crawling, nauseating sense of having lived through this before when he looks to his instincts instead of his senses.

Hunching his shoulders though the night isn't cold, he turns back to his work.

_They all die. Whatever people you are referring to in your quaint little message—your friends, those who fought next to them, the lower classes, the poor, the wretched, the lost, the useless—they all die. They die for nothing. They die before a Republic is born, and they die after it is created._

"No." He snarls the word, rising and aiming his weapon at the empty shadows. "So long as one of us draws breath, so long as any man stands to fight for another, my words have meaning."

_Yet none of you draw breath. None of you have breathed for over two hundred years, my little morsel. Don't you remember?_

He does. He remembers in a torrent of pain, his head suddenly filled with images of the others falling in battle, and he chokes out a curse as he presses his back hard against the wall and searches the shadows again for his enemy. Where are its red eyes? Where are its limbs, its twisting, writhing, terrible limbs that never seem to hold a proper shape and yet always seem to end in claws?

_You are so like him._ The words are a rough hiss, suddenly filled with anger. It's an anger that changes to a chuckling, humorless mirth as the beast continues. _You trust yourself too much. You believe this world too easily. It's delightful._

What else is he supposed to use other than his own senses? How else is he supposed to tell real from unreal?

And just who is this monster comparing him to?

_Being like him is not a good thing at the moment, though._ The shadows all around him writhe, slither like great behemoths from a time before man. _He has… annoyed me tonight. I need strength with which to break him, and I will thoroughly enjoy taking it from all of you._

"Enjolras." Feuilly pitches his voice to carry. "Combeferre. Courfeyrac. Are any of you here?"

Wherever here could be said to be, whatever part of hell he has found himself in, and he doesn't truly expect an answer.

_They were here. They were all here, and you failed them._ A hint of red eyes shows, there on the barricade and gone again before he can aim. _As they failed you, leaving you to die. Did you really think he trusted you? Did you really think he cared for you? He let you take men because he didn't care if you died. He kept those he loved close to him._

"If you're talking of Enjolras, you're talking foolishness." Feuilly allows a grim smile to grace his face as he continues to search for anything to aim at. "He commanded well. We wouldn't have lasted as long as we did without him."

_You still all died._ The shadows hiss again, the words now more guttural growl than taunting tease. _Every one of you died, and for what? What did you accomplish? Your life was considered worthless, and your death was the same._

"I chose what became of my life, and I was quite content with the result." _Was._ The past tense catches in his throat, but he remembers dying often enough over these last months to know that it's true. "Though my death was earlier than I would have liked, I am also quite content with dying beside them, for a cause that I still find worth every bit of bloodshed that occurred."

_Then let us watch that bloodshed again._ The shadow practically purrs the words. _Let us watch the men you commanded die. Let us watch your friends die._

He doesn't get time to retort before there are men suddenly surrounding him, rushing to the barricade, the sounds of gunfire sharp in the air. Light streams down from a sky that was dark moments ago, and he can hear Enjolras and Courfeyrac both shouting orders.

He joins the fight. His other option is to do nothing while men die around him, and that is by far the more terrible option.

Not that what happens isn't horrible. His men fight well, but they aren't soldiers. They are brave, and most fight like monsters as they're cornered, but some find their breaking point. One starts screaming and doesn't stop until a bayonet enters his chest; one breaks and runs, and Feuilly loses track of him.

They all die, though. Before he can get to them, before he can help them, there is always just one too many Guardsman, one too many steps, and frustration burns in his chest because he won't let tears burn in his eyes.

He watches the Amis die, next, always, always just a little bit too slow to save them, and time is bending and twisting in ways it shouldn't. He sees Bahorel die, he sees Prouvaire dragged away, but there is no break in the action, no chance to rest before Courfeyrac is dying, Combeferre, Joly, Bossuet, and finally, in one terrible, beautiful moment, Enjolras and Grantaire.

The soldiers don't pause between shooting Enjolras and Grantaire and turning on him. There's something wrong about that, something off, but he doesn't have a chance to protest before the bullets find their marks.

He is shot in the Corinth, but he dies outside, where he died the first time, and he dies with the shadow's laughter ringing in his ears.

He dies, but consciousness doesn't fade. Though he knows his heart isn't beating, though he knows his lungs are no longer moving, he can see through his eyes. He can feel the ground beneath him.

He can see the shadow reaching for him, and he tries to move away but dead men don't move.

Except he has. He does. He may be dead, but wherever they are, that doesn't preclude torture or fighting or moving.

The shadow pulls back, its red eyes narrowing, a flicker of pointed teeth showing for a moment before disappearing. _Fine. There are other ways you can be hurt._

He is already hurt. He has acquired injuries throughout the battle. He's been _shot_, repeatedly, and though he may be a moving dead man he's apparently still capable of feeling pain.

_I told you it's been two hundred years and nothing's changed, didn't I?_ The shadow's words are soft and mocking now. _And you believe me. Why do you believe me? Have you asked yourself that?_

(_No. No, I don't want to be a part of this._)

Feuilly shakes his head, another stab of pain running behind his eyes and making his vision blur.

_Shall I show you his pain? Shall I show you his world, still so broken?_

The barricade disappears, fades into the shadows, and he is suddenly standing in a world of white. The smell of the place is strange, sharp and stinging in his nose. The walls are painted white, and the floor is made of tile, though not a tile that he is familiar with. A woman is standing in front of him, in trousers and a shirt made of some strange, stiff material, and she is speaking fiercely at him in a language that he doesn't understand.

And there is suddenly _another_, someone else's thoughts, someone else's pain inside him, and it is impossible to breathe as the _other's_ anger swamps his mind.

He fights.

He doesn't think about doing it. He simply _reacts_, and the shadows laugh in mocking, terrible glee as he screams in agony.

It might have gone differently if the shadow hadn't laughed. If the creature had stayed calm, had stayed quiet, he might have continued to fight, acting on instincts that are betraying him.

But it does laughs.

And anything that makes the shadow laugh can't be a good thing.

He stops fighting, and between one breath and the next the furious _other_ is the one controlling his body.

"This is over. This is done." The _other_ speaks fiercely, and Feuilly can understand him though the language isn't French. "And this is _mine_. You don't get to use me."

_I've already used you._ The shadows chuckle, a low, dark sound of mirth. _I've already used you both, as I will use all the others._

The hallway darkens, the shadows drowning out the too-bright light, and Feuilly finds himself wrenching control of his body back from the _other_ as they prepare to fight the shadow. It hurts, again, but it's a brief spike of pain, there and then gone as the _other_ swiftly gives up resisting.

The shadow chuckles again, a mocking, infuriating sound. _And when I'm done, the world will burn, and it will be your fault._

He knows as soon as the shadow leaves.

It's not just a brightening of the lights. It's a… _dimming_ of everything, a loss of the sharpness in edges, a loss of the pain from his injuries.

The only thing that doesn't dim is his awareness of the _other_, and he allows himself to slide down a wall until he is resting on the floor, his head tilted back, his eyes open but not focusing. His attention has other, more important things to deal with.

"My name is Feuilly." Feuilly speaks in French, though that isn't the language that is brightest in the _other's_ mind. He knows the _other_ can understand him, though, can feel the man pulling the meaning from Feuilly's own thoughts.

"Finnegan." The word comes from Feuilly's lips, and he shudders as he allows the _other_ to have control of his body. Finnegan speaks in English, but Feuilly does as this strange man had done so that he can understand, borrowing knowledge of the language. "Finny to my friends. For now, call me Finnegan."

"Finnegan." It's a strange name, an English name. "Do you know what's happening to us, Finnegan? Or why there is an _us_?"

"No." Finnegan sighs, and Feuilly can feel months' worth of anger and frustration in the other man's thoughts. "But I think we're safe, for now."

"It's gone." It's a comment and a question both.

"For now." Finnegan hesitates. "I think. But you're not. You're real, aren't you? This entire thing is real. Or I'm completely out of my mind."

"I'm not crazy. I'm real." Shifting his head forward, Feuilly studies the now empty and silent hallway where they're seated. "But I'm not so sure the rest of this is real."

"No." Hesitation colors Finnegan's thoughts and words. "Not right now, it's not. I think we should really get to know one another very quickly, Feuilly." Finnegan pauses, though he doesn't give up control of Feuilly's body. "And I think that Con and Cori are going to have some very fast explaining to do tomorrow."

XXX

Musichetta keeps herself from going to where the barricade was for three days.

She tells herself that she won't go at all. She tells herself that it will change nothing, that it doesn't matter.

She tells herself that they might not even have been there, that maybe they escaped, that maybe they will reappear when it's safe, but she knows better.

Enjolras died here.

Courfeyrac died here.

After two solid days have passed with no word, she knows that her men died here, also. She still watches the lists of names as they are posted, the names of the lost on both sides, the names of those going to trial, but once all nine of Les Amis de l'ABC are accounted for the lists have no more power to hurt her.

Her men died with their friends, died fighting for what they believed in, and that will be comfort later, but not right now.

Right now there is only the emptiness of their apartment, the silence where there was always life, the cold of no one beside her when often there would be one if not two bodies, and she cries the entire time she is at the Corinth.

Where did they die? Which bloodstains belong to the people she has loved dearly for far too long? Which stories that she hears, wild tales of heroism and barbarism, which of those stories involve the men that she wanted to stay with forever?

Men whose funerals she will not attend. Men whose families will not send their condolences. Men whose lives she will not be allowed to mourn openly, freely, because while she was mistress to one, she could call neither her husband.

Society will not acknowledge her grief, will stifle it as soon as possible, so she allows the tears to flow freely here.

She doesn't see the shadows twist and writhe around her feet, darkening with each sob, deepening with each tear.

She doesn't hear the quiet, contented hiss that rises as her shaking fingers touch the hacked-off edges of the stairs.

Did her men make it this far? Did they fight for this long?

All she can hear is her own sobs, harsh, all of her heartbreak given voice because if she doesn't do this now it will tear her apart later.

All she can see is phantom images of her men, her beautiful, kind, brilliant men and the friends that they loved.

When she leaves the area, ignoring the others with tears on their faces and horror in their eyes, the shadows don't follow her.

XXX

Eponine screams as the bullet strikes home and Marius falls.

This isn't how it's supposed to happen. This isn't what she wanted.

_You wanted him dead._ The shadows have hands, have claws, claws that run up and down her arms and leave trails of red.

She doesn't care. She doesn't care about anything other than Marius, and she kneels at his side, the battle still raging around them. "Marius? Monsieur Marius, please—"

He opens his eyes, and her heart soars. Perhaps it isn't so bad. Perhaps she will still be able to die first. Perhaps—

"Cosette?" He whispers the word, his voice a weak thread, his eyes unfocused. "Cosette, I… love… you…"

He stills, his eyes open, but the light and life that has captivated her for the last months is gone.

Gone, lost, and her with the letter from Cosette still in her pocket, secrets between them, and his dying words had been for the other girl.

_He never cared for you. He never noticed you, little thing._ The claws are in her arms again, pin-pricks of fire turning her around to meet dancing red eyes in a face of black shadows. _And you killed him. You destroyed him. Selfish, foolish, hopeless you killed him, without his ever having acknowledged you._

"No." She shakes her head, tries to back away, but Marius' body is there, and she will not step on him. She will not let this creature touch him. "No, that's not… I just wanted…"

_You just wanted him to die._ The words are a sibilant hiss in her ear. _And you have gotten your wish._

"I wanted him to talk with me!" The words are a sharp cry as she tries to shove the creature away, but its body is only frigid cold, insubstantial vapor that reforms as soon as her hands have moved. "I wanted him to speak familiarly to me, as he always did! I wanted him… I wanted…"

_You wanted what he could never give you. You wanted to be the girl that he dreams of, looks for, runs to._ The creature's words are almost gentle. _And if you could not be that, if he could not give you that, then you would send him to die with his friends._

She can't scream. She can't cry. She can't even whimper.

All she can do is bow her head, because the creature is right.

Its claws are in her chest before she even notices it's moving, the creature's right arm wrapped around her, holding her close to it in a parody of an embrace as the claws of its left hand dig into her flesh, into her heart, into her _core_.

(_Stop it! Stop it, let me _go_, let us go, oh God, it hurts, make it stop—_)

The creature shouldn't let her go, though. She's earned this. She's destroyed the one piece of light that she had left in her life, and for what? Because she didn't want him to leave?

He is gone, now, more surely than if he took any ship across the sea with Cosette.

(_No. No, he's alive. Mark's _fine_, this isn't real, this isn't real, it hurts, it hurts—_)

_So easy._ The shadow purrs the words into her ear, its fingers digging deeper as the fire blooms through her body. _So simple, with you. How much of your being will you let me carve out, little one? How much can I steal now?_

(_Make. It. _Stop.)

She doesn't know the words that echo in her mind. She doesn't know the language. But she knows the meaning, the anger, the fear, the impotent fury of being used.

She will not be used. She will not be taken, broken, discarded like so much useless refuse after others have had their way.

Snarling out her fury and grief in a broken cry, she tries to push the creature away, and this time her hands find purchase.

_Oh really, little one? Still a spark of life in you? _The shadow releases her quickly, dancing away, and she falls to the ground. _No matter. I could easily start the conflagration now, but that wouldn't be appropriate._

She doesn't have the strength to move anymore. She doesn't have the strength to cry, though her chest feels like a raging inferno and she can feel blood sluicing down her skin, soaking her shirt.

_I will have their souls._ The shadow slides forward to whisper the words into her ear, a light purr again. _If I have to buy them with power stolen from yours, so be it, but I will use him and his to make the world burn._

The creature leans down, kisses her gently on the brow with lips as cold and insubstantial as mist.

_Watch for the fireworks, my beautiful broken one, and know that I make them in your names._

With that the monster is gone, leaving her bleeding by Marius' corpse.

Closing her eyes, Eponine cries and waits for consciousness to fade.


	18. Part 18: Pieces to an Unknown Puzzle

_Part Eighteen: Pieces to an Unknown Puzzle_

Grant wakes to a terrible, methodic pounding in his skull and a horrible pressure in his bladder. His mouth tastes awful, and he can't open his eyes, something that feels like chewed-up gummy bears keeping them closed.

It's a familiar feeling, though one that he hasn't really experienced for the last month or two. Had he gone out with Barry last night? Or was it Lyle and Jona? Who does he need to look sadly at for allowing him to…

Oh.

Memories resurface in a fragmented haze. Eric, bleeding on the ground. Eric, sitting next to him in the bar.

Forcing his eyes open, Grant moves to sit up and realizes that there's something across his chest.

Blinking, he focuses on the object, only accepting after a few seconds that it really is an arm.

An arm that's attached to a shoulder, that's attached to a neck, that's attached to a beautiful blond head that is slowly blinking unfocused blue eyes at him.

_Enjolras is sleeping in our bed._ Grantaire makes the observation before Grant's mind can manage to process the images.

No.

No, he's not.

Being very careful not to touch Eric, Grant disentangles himself from the sheet and maneuvers off the bed before rushing to the bathroom.

He feels slightly better once he's used the toilet, washed his face, rinsed his mouth out and downed whatever the first painkiller was that came into his hand. His memory of the night before is hazy, but between him and Grantaire he's fairly certain he can piece together what happened.

He figured out that he has a dead man inside him, and that all the others do, too.

He managed to undermine that piece of good work by completely forgetting to do what Eric needed him to do.

Eric bled.

Grant did the dumbest thing he could possibly do in response, running off and drinking himself silly.

Eric brought him home, because Eric's amazing and manages to forgive him for everything.

_And he kissed us._

Grant freezes at the memory that surfaces with Grantaire's simple statement.

Eric kissed him.

That… doesn't make any sense. That doesn't fit into the narrative.

Just like waking up in bed next to Eric doesn't make any sense.

_We didn't do something incredibly bad or stupid, did we?_ Grant directs the question to Grantaire. _We didn't, like, crawl into his bed in the middle of the night, or refuse to let him go last night, or—_

_I'm fairly certain we just crawled into our bed and fell asleep._ Grantaire is being far too calm about all this. _I don't know why he's in our bed. I don't know why he kissed us. I was hoping you could tell me now that we're not quite so drunk._

"Nope." Grant shakes his head. "Nope, I have no answers for you. Me. However I'm supposed to refer to you, whoever wants to have any idea what's going on… I'm at a complete loss."

_So what are we going to do?_ Grantaire's voice is mostly amused, though there's an undercurrent of fear. _Do we ask him what happened? Do we pretend nothing happened?_

_I'm voting for the second one._ Grant straightens, turning away from the mirror and toward the bathroom door. _We're grateful that he doesn't hate us, we make sure he's all right, and we let him do whatever he wants. I'm sure he has a perfectly good reason for being in our bed._

_Enjolras always has a good reason for whatever he does._ The absolute faith and trust in Grantaire's thoughts is something that Grant recognizes. _I have no problem with trusting this future version of him._

"Good." Grant whispers the word as he exits the bathroom.

He walks back into their room to find Eric already dressed, in jeans and a button-up white short-sleeved shirt that looks really good on him.

Then again, everything looks really good on Eric.

And that isn't really what he needs to be thinking about right now.

"Good morning, Grant." Eric's hands fall slowly to his sides, his expression slightly pensive. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit. Which is about what I deserve to feel like after last night." Smiling ruefully, Grant moves over to his own closet and grabs the first clothes that come to hand. "Thanks for bringing me home."

"How much of last night do you remember?" Eric's hands are in his pockets, the rest of his body still as he watches Grant.

"Uh…" Grant pauses, giving his memory and Grantaire's a chance to line up. "I think, between the two of us, we remember most of it. I really, really can't apologize enough for being a complete idiot yesterday afternoon and last night."

"It's all right, Grant. If you remember what we talked about, then you remember that you weren't the only one who made mistakes. Just make sure not to make the same ones again, and I'll be happy." Eric settles down on the edge of his bed, a bed that's perfectly made, the sheet that had been wrapped around Eric's body returned to its proper place. "Are you and Grantaire doing all right?"

"Yeah." Grant waits for Grantaire to give a silent assent as well, smiling as he turns back to Eric. "The two of us seem to have an awful lot in common. It's actually been pretty easy having him in my head. It's like having a captive audience that can ramble back at me in nineteenth century French and finds my sense of humor just as entertaining as I do."

"Good." Eric nods, his eyes dropping down to the floor for a moment before meeting Grant's evenly again. "I'm sorry if I upset you this morning. I hadn't intended to touch you."

So much for pretending that nothing happened. "It's all right. It was just… weird. I will admit that I don't remember anything about… that. About how… it… happened."

Smooth, Grant. Very smooth.

"That's because you were asleep." Eric pauses, a wry smile crossing his face. "And that didn't sound quite like how I intended it to. Nothing happened. I just thought that I might wake you up by moving around earlier than I would wake you up screaming if anything bad happened. If it bothered you, I won't do it again."

"No. No, that's fine. That makes sense." It makes a lot more sense than anything else that Grant had thought of, and he's grateful for a reasonable explanation. "Anything that'll help keep you safe is fine by me."

"You look… relieved." There's a troubled, sad expression on Eric's face. "I did upset you last night, didn't I?"

"No! No, you didn't do anything to…" Grant pauses, trying to think of the right words. Why is it that when he shouldn't talk words always come easily to him, and now that he needs to try to explain things it's hard? "I just… don't understand why. You kissed me, right?"

"I did." Eric shrugs, meeting his gaze evenly. "It was just a quick kiss on the cheek."

"Yeah, and if it was Cori or Maria or even Lyle I'd say it wasn't a big deal, but it's you. You don't kiss people. You'll touch our shoulders or you'll take our hands and you'll sometimes put an arm around us, but even that's pushing things. You let us touch you, you don't usually touch us, and you…" Grant hesitates. "You never do anything that people could mistake for something… sexual. You just _don't_. So why…"

"Because I needed to reach you. Because I had to make you be all right." Eric's expression is infinitely sad now, but he doesn't look away. "I didn't know what else to do, Grant. I didn't think about it all that much. I just… acted. And it worked."

"It did. It definitely short-circuited any thoughts I was having, and I think it always would." Running a hand through his hair, Grant turns away from Eric's too-direct, too-honest gaze. "So it didn't… it didn't mean anything else?"

Eric's quiet, and after nearly a minute Grant forces himself to turn around to look at the other man. If Eric's moved, Grant can't tell, and his blue eyes are unfocused.

"Eric?" Grant takes a step toward the bed and pauses.

"I'm fine." Eric blinks. "When you ask me if it meant anything else, what do you want me to say, Grant? What type of relationship do you want with me?"

_Good luck with explaining that one._ Grant gets the distinct impression of someone raising a glass in toast to him from Grantaire.

"I want…" How does he explain what he wants? How does he decide for _himself_ what he wants? He wants Eric to respect him. He wants Eric to desire his presence, to enjoy having him here rather than tolerating him. He wants Eric to _care_ about him. He wants to be _special_ to Eric.

Does he want to sleep with Eric? It's something he hasn't allowed himself to consider, not in a while. He's seen Eric's responses to people who want to sleep with him, and they vary from a plain rejection to a disdainful rejection to a ten-minute speech on what asexuality means.

Granted, those rejections have been to people who didn't _know_ him, who simply were enchanted by his looks and acting on lust, but still…

"I want… whatever you want. As long as you're happy, as long as you'll let me stay with you, then…" Grant trails off, seeing the disappointment in Eric's expression. "I'm sorry. That clearly wasn't what you wanted to hear."

"Don't be sorry. I asked for your opinion. If that's your honest desire…" Eric hesitates, his brows drawn together. "But you have to have some opinions on what kind of relationship you want with me. You clearly care about me a great deal. You apparently have for going on two centuries. I… want to understand why. I want to understand _you_, Grant."

"Why?" The word is a soft whisper. "Why are you so interested in me?"

"I'm not sure that turning the question around on me is a fair tactic." Eric tilts his head to the side, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "But I'm interested in you because you're one of my friends. You're one of the Independents. And because you're a puzzle to me. I really don't understand you, Grant, and I want to."

"I'm pretty sure there's not all that much to understand. I'm a guy who drinks and occasionally sketches and generally tries to have a good time." He tries to smile, but the expression feels forced and hollow. "Not that hard to understand. Just your stereotypical useless college dilettante."

"No, you're not. You drink yourself out of your mind on a regular basis, yes, though you have been better about it recently." Eric continues to watch him with that puzzled, curious expression on his face. "But you're smart. You use words like dilettante. You're _kind_. You care deeply about people when they're close to you. You care deeply about the Independents, and you have empathy for others. You try to help us, though you keep claiming you don't believe in what we're doing. And that's what I don't understand, Grant. Why do you stay with us if you think what we're doing is foolish? Why do you care about us? Why do you keep trying, why do you keep asking me for chances? Just… why?"

"Because…" He's danced around this topic with Eric before. He's talked about his past, about his parents, about the doubts that started with religion and blossomed out into every aspect of his life. He's glanced across what Eric means to him, but never like this. Never when they're both sober, when he can meet Eric's eyes evenly. How much can he actually say? "Because I want you to be right." The words come out half-strangled, and a large part of him balks at saying them, saying it's foolish, unrealistic, that he's just setting himself up for pain. "I want what you believe to be _real._ I want you to change the world, Eric. I want you to make things better. I want to be a _part_ of that, a _useful_ part of it, even if every inch of my mind and soul says that it's never going to work. You're so… you're so strong, Eric. You're so _certain_ and _determined_ and you _believe_ so much and… I'd do anything to be a part of that. To be a part of what you're doing. I'll try as hard as I can, even though I know that it's likely pointless, that I'm not much good for anything."

"You're good for things. You're good for quite a lot of things. And you don't always fail." Eric hesitates, just for a moment, his gaze going unfocused again. "In both lives that I've seen, you don't always fail. You're capable of greatness. You're quite capable of standing at my side."

_Is he talking about me?_ There is awe in Grantaire's question, awe and a terrible hope and disbelief that makes Grant want to cry. _He can't be. Is he?_

"No." Grant shakes his head. "I can't. Not really. Not for any length of time, not like the others, but I'm happy just to have my moments with you."

"Why me?" There's still that puzzled look on Eric's face. "The others can be just as passionate, just as determined. Why this fixation on me?"

"Because you're the most… the most…" He can't think of a word that encompasses everything he feels. Pure isn't quite right. Determined isn't quite right. Radiant, burning, driven, genuine, natural, incorruptible… he shrugs helpless. "Because you're you."

Eric continues to watch him. After a few seconds he sighs and shakes his head, running his right hand through his blond hair. "Is it because of the way I look? Is that part of it?"

"No!" He doesn't mean to yell at Eric, but the thought of Eric thinking his attachment to him is just some kind of lust is terribly wrong. "Hell, no. I would love you if you were just as ugly as me. It's… it's _you_. Who you are, what you do, that's what I love, not your body. Not that you don't have a nice body, but… no."

"All right. I'm sorry." Eric seems surprised at the vehemence in his voice. "I didn't mean to insult you. I just… don't understand how lust works, and it's supposed to be a large driving force for most people… and that's sounding worse the more I talk, so let's just pretend I didn't say anything stupid. Though I don't know what orientation you are. I've never asked."

"I'm straight, I guess. Mostly. Maybe. I like women. I've got nothing against guys sleeping with guys, but I've never wanted to." He's babbling. He should probably stop that. But his mind is suddenly filled with images of him kissing Eric, him _touching_ Eric, and sometimes having a visual imagination isn't a good thing. He can feel his face heating. "But it's got nothing to do with how I feel about you. Besides, you're _ace_, Eric. You're the one who taught me the meaning of the word! Why do you care whether or not I want anything physical? You don't, and that's fine with me."

"And if I was willing to? If I… wasn't against the idea?"

No. No, no, no. Because even if he could imagine Eric wanted to, Eric wouldn't want to with _him_. Grant's voice drops to a whisper. "Why me? Why would you ever even consider me?"

"You really mean that, don't you?" An expression of vague surprise crosses Eric's face. "You really don't know why I'd be interested in you?"

"No." This is at least an easy question to answer. "I'm an ugly drunken idiot who proved last night, once again, exactly how much of a fuck-up he is. I have absolutely no idea why someone like you wants me as a friend, let alone… more."

"Ah, Grant…" Eric sighs. "You always sell yourself so short when you don't need to. I'd be interested in you as a lover for the same reasons I like you as a friend. For me, it's… very nearly the same thing."

"Yeah." A bitter smile is the best response. "I don't really understand why you keep me as a friend, either, though I'm insanely grateful for it."

"Did you miss the part where I said that you're kind? That you're smart? You can also be amusing, and we do share one conviction very strongly." Eric's blue eyes meet his, steady, completely unembarrassed and unperturbed. "We love our friends dearly. We apparently have for two hundred years."

"I… what?" He should be able to follow this conversation. He shouldn't find it so hard to process Eric complimenting him.

"The Independents. Les Amis de l'ABC. Con, Cori, Jona, Lyle, Maria, Barry, Finny, Mark and Erin this time around. You always cared deeply for them, and it showed." Eric closes his eyes, just for a moment. When he opens them he looks tired, sadder… older, older than Eric is, older than Enjolras ever lived to be. "And they're the only thing I'll sacrifice any part of the revolution for. They're the way to… well. They're very dear to me, all of them, and you're included in that group."

"Really?" The word is a quiet whisper again.

"Really." Eric smiles as he echoes the word. "And I know this is complicated. I know that it's frightening, especially given the dreams. I'm not trying to tell you what you should feel or want. But if you ever do decide that you want anything physical… I would be open to experimenting. I can't say that I'll necessarily enjoy it or want to continue, but… I'd be open to try, if that's what you want. If it will help you, if it will give you something you need… If it's not, that's fine. You're one of us. I care about you. I know that you can be amazing, Grant, and I'll do whatever I can to help you live up to that potential."

"I'll try. I'll always keep trying for you." He's going to need a lot longer to think about the… well, to think about the rest of it. And probably a drink. And definitely Jona or Lyle or Barry, because he needs to ramble at someone other than Eric to try to figure out exactly what it is he wants.

Silence descends between them. Just when Grant's about to take his clothes and head back to the bathroom Eric finally speaks again.

"Did you dream last night?"

"No." Slowly shaking his head, Grant shivers. "I didn't. Or if I did, I don't remember it, and I think I'd remember anything that the shadow did. You?"

"Yes." Eric hesitates a moment before smiling. It's a strained smile, though. "It ran from us."

"Wait, what?" Grant can feel a fierce grin pulling at his lips as he takes a step toward Eric. "The shadow ran from you? That's _awesome_."

"It… was good to frighten the beast." Raising his right hand, Eric presses hard at his chest, in a gesture that Grant finds he doesn't like very much.

"Are you okay?" Taking another hesitant step towards Eric, Grant finds his right hand is reaching toward Eric without his conscious volition. Pulling the offending limb back to his side, he makes himself stand still. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"It didn't manage to do what it wanted with us. We scared it away from touching us." Eric's voice is quiet, his eyes unfocused, and Grant's not certain that Eric's talking to him at all anymore. "It left our dream, in the end, because it couldn't get us. It was a victory for us."

Grant doesn't like the way that Eric's voice sounds, soft, uncertain, as though he's trying to convince himself of something. "I've never managed to scare it. When it comes into my dreams, I pretty much always end up crying and convinced that I'm the most useless thing that ever existed."

"You're not." Eric's voice is firm as his gaze meets Grant's. "Don't believe anything it says. Don't believe anything the imitations that it makes of us say. It's a vile creature that revels in pain and despair, twisting truth to make a more bitter lie."

"Yeah. Yeah, it is." Grant gestures toward where Eric's hand is still pressed against his chest. "Why're you doing that, E?"

For a moment Grant doesn't think Eric's going to respond to him. Then Eric looks away with a sigh and begins unbuttoning his shirt. "Would you look at my chest and tell me if you see anything?"

"Uh… yeah." Grant tries hard not to blush as he moves forward. He's certain Eric has a perfectly legitimate reason for asking this. Thinking about strange kisses and Eric in his bed is not going to be helpful at the moment.

Any thoughts like that disappear quickly as he settles on the bed next to Eric and studies the pale skin of his chest.

The marks might not be as obvious if Eric had a darker skin complexion. They're thin and fine, the faint remnants of scratches that Grant would normally say are a day or two old. Except they're _everywhere_, criss-crossing Eric's chest, and the majority of them are centered over his heart. Grant's fingers touch the reddest, deepest one, following it from start to finish across the right side of Eric's chest. "Where did these come from?"

"They're real, aren't they?" Eric sighs, moving to rebutton his shirt. "You can see them, too."

"What are they?" Grant pulls his hand back to his side. "Is this… did something happen in the dream?"

"We scared it away." Eric pauses, his hands still on the last button. "But before that, it… well, it tried to finish what it started the night before. It tried to… hurt us."

"Well, good thing it's got claws like a kitten, then." The smile on Grant's face is pained, forced, but if he doesn't smile he's afraid he's going to do something foolish like cry or hug Eric. "Little scratches like that aren't going to do much to you."

"Enjolras' injuries were worse. Not terrible, don't worry, but not these faint little marks, either. They actually hurt, and the scratches didn't fade when the other dream-injuries faded." Finishing with his shirt, Eric folds his arms across his chest. "I suppose that's another thing we can add to our knowledge base. Most injuries in the dreams don't stick, but what the shadow does to us will. And it transfers over here, at least partially."

Grant finds himself staring in numb silence at Eric's profile.

_This isn't right._ Grantaire's voice is outrage and fear all rolled into one. _How did it hurt him? Why him? We were right there, right next to him, and it didn't touch us. If it hurts anyone, it should be us._

"Are you sure you're all right?" Grant's hand finds and holds Eric's tightly. "Is Enjolras all right?"

"I'm fine, Grant. I told you, we managed to scare it. It was a lot better than my dreams have been in quite a while." Eric's fingers tighten around Grant's. He pauses for a moment, his blue eyes suddenly unfocused, and when he speaks again it's in French. "And I'm fine, Grantaire. It was, overall, a more pleasant night than most I've had in recent memory."

Grant doesn't fight as Grantaire slides forward. He's had his reassurance from Eric; let Grantaire have his from Enjolras. "I would say that speaks more volumes about how terrible your recent nights have been than about how pleasant this last night was."

"Perhaps." Enjolras lifts his free hand to press at his chest again. "We did learn useful things last night, though. And even if it wasn't quite the victory I wanted, it was a victory. And the end of the dream… the end of the dream was pleasant."

Enjolras still has Grant's hand, his fingers tight around theirs, and Grantaire finds himself staring down at their joined digits. "Is this all right?"

"Hm?" Glancing down at their hands, Enjolras smiles. "It's fine, Grantaire."

"Even though…" Even though they didn't earn it. Even though they don't deserve it. Even though they slept through all of their friends dying.

"Yes." Enjolras' voice is quiet but certain. "Despite whatever reservations you have, you proved yourself quite worthy of this."

Grantaire nods, slowly, not quite certain he can believe it but wanting to anyway. "What do we do now?"

"I give him back his body. He has work to do, and there's little enough that we can do about the dreams until tonight. We'll meet with the others again, and see if anyone's found out anything else useful." Enjolras closes his eyes, and when they open again he's switched back to English. "Hopefully everyone doesn't worry too much about the scratches."

Grant sighs. "We'll try not to. Thanks for showing me."

"We can't keep things from each other. Not anymore." Eric squeezes his hand once before letting go and standing up. "Did you have plans for the day?"

Shaking his head, Grant stands as well. There's no way he's sitting on Eric's bed without Eric there. "No."

Eric doesn't hesitate. "Would you like to help me with a few things?"

"I… yes." Nodding, trying to keep from remembering how badly things went yesterday, Grant nods. "I'd like that."

Eric smiles. "Then let me get cleaned up, and we'll get started."

XXX

Erin wakes to pain.

It feels like someone kicked her in the chest, hard, repeatedly, and for a moment all she can do is stare in terror at the ceiling and focus on breathing.

The ceiling is hers, though. The walls that surround her are those of her room. Mark's silly book is still by her bed. She's home, in her space, the door locked while she sleeps, and that means that she's safe, at least for the moment.

Safe but in pain, and she forces herself to sit up, to take stock of her situation. The room shifts and spins around her, and she closes her eyes for a moment and clenches her fingers hard in the sheet. She will not throw up. Not only would it look weak, it would probably hurt like hell with how her chest is feeling.

What the hell happened last night?

She's in shorts and a T-shirt, her usual summer nightwear when she isn't trying to impress anyone. There aren't any bruises that she can see on her arms and legs, and she doesn't remember anything happening last night. All she did was look-out and unloading.

Maybe it was something during unloading. Maybe she pulled a muscle. Maybe… maybe…

(_Its claws in my chest, so sharp, so hot…_)

No.

Shaking her head, she forces away images of a creature made of shadows, of Mark's body prone on the ground, of blood trailing down her chest. It was just a dream. The ache she's feeling now doesn't have anything to do with dreams.

Standing slowly, giving her vision a chance to stabilize, Erin makes her way carefully to the bathroom. Turning on the shower, cranking the hot water up, she undresses. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she freezes, staring in horrified fascination at her reflection.

She looks awful. She's pale. There's an unhealthy, terrible pallor to her skin that hadn't been there yesterday. And in the center of her chest, spreading out to cover the central half of each of her breasts, dipping down to the edge of her ribs and spreading up to just brush the hollow of her throat, is the most livid, dark purple bruise she's ever seen in her life.

"Shit." Her hand trembles as she reaches up to touch the bruising. The skin is tender above the bruise, and she gasps in a pained breath and pulls her hand away.

What the hell happened? How did she miss something that could leave marks like _this_?

At least it's just a bruise. Bruises healed, given time. She won't be able to wear anything low-cut for the next few days, and she's going to hate watching that dark purple shift to an ugly yellow, but it will heal.

Given time enough, every injury healed.

Quickly stripping out of the rest of her clothes, Erin jumps in the shower, making it as hot as she dares, trying hard to avoid looking at or touching the bruise.

Nothing good will come out of thinking about it any more.

XXX

_Roll call each morning is probably a good idea. Grant and I are fine. Meet tonight if you can, my place again, because there's more we need to discuss. –Eric_

Con can feel himself relaxing back against the car seat as he stares at the text message, a weight finally lifting from his chest. Though reading about the history of France's government and comparing it to Combeferre's memories had been fascinating—and painful, at times, especially as Combeferre learned exactly how long it took for France to truly have a stable Republic—it hadn't managed to completely drown out his worries and fears throughout the morning.

_He's all right. They're all right._ Combeferre's murmur is quiet, but the sense of relief and contentment doubles until Con can feel himself grinning like an idiot.

"It's Eric, isn't it?" Cori glances over at him from the driver's seat. He's driving with his right hand, his left arm propped in the open window.

Smiling back at Cori, Con nods. "How'd you know?"

"Well, there are only so many people who would send you and me a text message at the exact same time. Plus you look like someone just told you that it's your birthday and you can have whatever you want, including world peace. I take it they both made it through the night all right?"

"Yeah." Con nods, typing out a quick response and sending it off to the rest of the Independents. "Eric wants to meet again tonight, says there's more for us to discuss, but he also says that he and Grant are fine."

"Good." Turning onto the street where Meme's house is, Cori pulls his hand back into the car and rolls up the window. "I'm guessing what you just sent tells him that you, me and Mark are alive?"

"Uh huh." Con's just about to put his phone back in his pocket when it trills, and a picture of Barry, Lyle and Jona pops up on the screen. "And the other three are alive, as well. Lyle is attempting to strangle Barry for some reason, but otherwise they look fine."

"As long as Finny's all right, too." Letting out a soft sigh, Cori uses his fingers to brush his windblown hair back into a semblance of behaving. "We're going to feel very silly if he isn't actually Feuilly, you know."

Con raises one eyebrow. "And what do you think the chances of him _not_ being Feuilly are?"

"Very poor. I'm pretty much a hundred percent convinced that he is, just like I'm pretty convinced I've never met anyone who could be Jehan. Still, it would be embarrassing. A bit of a relief, because it would mean we have a friend who _isn't_ possibly going to die horribly with us, but embarrassing."

"We're not going to die, Cori." Reaching across the car, Con puts his hand on Cori's shoulder. "None of us is going to die, not because of the shadow or because of what Mark's been telling us or because of… because of _anything_. We're going to be fine."

"Probably. Hopefully." Cori shrugs, slowing down as they approach the proper house. The driveway is full, so Cori parks on the side of the road. "No, I think you're right. I think we're going to be fine. Sorry for the dark humor."

"I'll take what humor I can get at the moment." Climbing out of the car, Con stretches. "Let's go face the music."

A girl that Con doesn't recognize, maybe thirteen or fourteen, opens the door at his knock. She glances between him and Cori, makes a disdainful face, and turns around to shout back into the house. "Finny! Your weird rich friends are here."

"Send the idiots back to my room!" The answering bellow is instantly recognizable, as is the frustration and annoyance in the voice.

Cori winces, looking worriedly at Con.

Before Con can take more than two steps into the house, a woman's voice brings him up short.

"Finnegan!" Meme emerges from the kitchen into the hallway, leaning on a cane. Her voice is thinner than Con's used to hearing it, and she looks… old, as though she's aged over a decade in the year since he saw her last. Her blue eyes are just as sharp as he's used to seeing them, though, and she glares down toward Finny's closed bedroom door. "I don't care how old you are, Finnegan, or how much work you've done around here these last few weeks. You will not holler in my house, and you will not insult people who are our guests. The same goes for you, Cici."

"Sorry, Meme." Finny appears at the end of the hallway, looking sheepish. "I'm just… a little bit stressed right now."

"I know." Meme's voice softens, and she limps down the hall to lay a hand on Finny's shoulder. "I'm sorry one of your friends is sick. I'm sorry you've had to take so much time out of your life to help me. But really, now. You couldn't come up with a more accurate insult for Conlan? He's many things, but we all know he's not an idiot."

Meme's smiling as she turns to look back at them, and Con forces himself to return it, not allowing his eyes to catch on the yellow bruises on the side of her face, on the brace around her neck, on the brace on her leg. "Your encouragement and belief in my intelligence is, as ever, appreciated."

"I am truly sorry to barge into your house like this, madam." Cori skips through the distance that separates them from Finny and Meme. Taking the hand that had been touching Finny's shoulder, he places a gentle kiss on the back. "And I am truly grateful to see your recovery proceeding apace, your beauty only highlighted by the hardships you've had to bear."

"Cori, my darling little tease, never give up on being a lawyer to attempt to be a poet. I'm afraid you might starve to death." Meme pats his cheek fondly. "Now, do you boys need to run back to campus right away to deal with everything, or will you have a bit of time to sit and chat with a curious old woman before leaving?"

Finny answers before Con can quite think of something vague enough to not poke holes in whatever story Finny's come up with. "They're going to take me shopping. It'll give us a few minutes to catch up again. Then they'll be all yours while I finish up packing."

"Until later, _mon cher_." Cori touches Meme's shoulder again before retreating back to the door.

Con manages to wait until all three of them are in the car, safely isolated from the rest of Finny's family, to ask anything. Turning around to face Finny, he raises both eyebrows. "Sick friend? Packing?"

"I told her that Jona's sick, which may or may not be true but I'm sure he believes he has _something_, and that you guys need me to help take care of him and get things rolling for the semester. It seemed a bit easier an explanation for her to swallow than that I had to leave because there's a crazy dead Frenchman in my head. Mine is named Feuilly." Finny meets Con's gaze, annoyance in his voice again, a slow-building anger burning in his eyes. "Yours is, I believe, named Combeferre. Cori's is likely called Courfeyrac. Or I'm completely insane."

"Well, so much for being embarrassed." Cori is grinning far too happily. "How long have you known his name?"

"What time is it now?" Finny squints at the glare on the car clock. "I'd say… more than six hours, probably less than twelve."

"Last night." Con can feel his fingers clenching hard on the armrest, but he can't seem to make them relax. "Are you all right? Did…"

"No, Con, I'm _not_ all right, because there's some kind of fucking demon that tried to kill an already dead guy in my head last night. And you guys clearly know what's going on, and didn't have the common decency to _tell me_." Finny draws a deep breath, closes his eyes, and lets it out in a slow sigh. "Probably because you were worried something bad would happen, given the bizarre conversation we had last night, but still. A little warning would have been nice."

"Eric tried to tear his soul in half when he met his." Cori's eyes are fixed straight ahead, on the road, his tone completely serious for once. "It was… frightening to watch. It made him bleed—we highly suspect it would have killed him if Con hadn't talked them down."

"I… might have done something like that." Finny's hand presses hard against his chest. "I was fighting him for control—or he was fighting me, I'm not sure who started it anymore—and it… hurt. Lots. And it made that thing happy, which is actually what got us to stop fighting. Anything that makes that demon happy can't be a good thing, so as soon as it seemed excited we stopped."

"Yeah, making it happy generally indicates bad things." The words are a strangled whisper, and Con tries hard not to think about yesterday, about Eric bleeding, about what might have happened to Finny last night.

_We did what we could._ Combeferre's voice is just as dispirited, just as frustrated and disappointed. _At least _we_ didn't hurt him. That the enemy hurt him isn't our fault._

It still feels like it, though.

"I'm sorry, Finny." Cori turns around, his posture small, hunched, weary or frightened or a combination of the two. "We were trying to keep something like that from happening. That's why we were hesitant to talk about it over the phone, especially since we didn't know if you were actually one of Les Amis."

Finny's breath catches in his throat, his eyes close for a moment, and he raises his right hand to press hard at his eyes. "Can we… stick to English right now? Please?"

_For now, certainly. We don't want to make this harder than it already is._ Combeferre's voice still has a hint of weariness, though it's at least tempered by his joy at knowing Feuilly's present and still alive. _But we'll want to see Feuilly later._

_I'm sure there will be time for a French-version conversation later tonight. _"But for now, we can stick to English." Con wishes he had sat in the back seat, so that he could reach over and put an arm around Finny's shoulders. "How much have you figured out?"

"Not a whole lot. Or at least, not a lot that makes sense. There was a demon. A monster made out of shadow. And it was… attacking me. Trying to get something from me. Except it… wasn't me. It was Feuilly. Who is an awful lot like me—a frightening amount like me." Finny's hand rises to his chest, sinks into the fabric over his heart and forms a tight ball once more. "I don't understand, Con. But I can't stay here, with Meme and the kids, if there's some kind of… of _monster_ that's after me."

_He has a family._ There's a wistful, pleased, hopeful note to Combeferre's thoughts as they remember Meme and her collection. _He has a place to go. Further proof that not everything is a repeat, this time around._

"Has it appeared to anyone else? Has it attacked anyone other than you here?" Cori's fingers shake until he clenches them harder around the wheel. Throwing the car into reverse, he pulls onto the street.

Finny hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. "No. Not that I can get anyone to admit to, anyway. But I woke up with blood all over my face and pillow this morning. There are a few of Meme's kids that… really wouldn't handle seeing me like that well."

Closing his eyes for a moment, Con pushes away the fear and panic that want to rise. "It was probably you fighting with Feuilly that caused it. We haven't seen anything other than that which would cause us to bleed. Unless… did it touch you?"

"No." Finny shakes his head. "It tried to. It put us through hell and back and then tried to come up to us, but we managed not to let it actually touch us. Con, please tell me you have some idea about what's going on."

"I'll fill you in on everything we know." Con grabs the edge of his seat as Cori swings the car wide around idiots who don't know enough not to walk in the road when there's traffic. "But it may take a little bit longer than just this shopping trip."

Finny shrugs, expression grim. "That's all right. I'm coming back with you guys. That should give us plenty of time to talk about everything."

Nodding, Con launches into the most succinct explanation he can think of for everything that's happening to them.

XXX

Mark knocks on the door to Erin's apartment again, pacing impatiently in the hallway, waiting for any signs of life. She had told him in her text that he could meet her here any time after noon. It's now ten minutes after noon, and he'd really like to see her and make sure that she's all right. Even if he's fairly certain she isn't Eponine, there's a part of him that won't be convinced of that until he's seen her safe and whole and fine and talked to her about everything that's been happening.

Finally the door opens, and an older woman that Mark's never seen glares out at him. "Who're you? What d' y' want?"

"Um…" Mark blinks in surprise at the woman. She must be related to Erin—probably her mother, given the age difference. He supposes he shouldn't be surprised to see someone other than Erin. He knows that she still lives with her parents. "Is Erin here?"

The look on the woman's face changes from annoyed to considering as she studies him, her eyes jumping from his face to his shirt to his shoes and then doing a slow circuit back up his body. She smiles when she talks to him again, but he's not sure that it's a smile he likes. "Why would y' be interested in m' girl, young man?"

"_Mom_." Erin's voice comes from behind the woman. "Leave 'im alone. He's jus' a friend."

"Oh really?" There's still that considering, assessing note in the woman's voice as she continues to eye Mark, though she backs away from the door. "A friend y' haven' introduced t' your mother an' father."

"'Nothah time. We're busy." Erin slips around her mother and out the door, taking Mark's hand in hers and pulling him down the hallway before he can protest.

Erin doesn't stop tugging on him until they're in the stairwell, the door closed behind them. Then she pauses, letting go of his hand and leaning hard on the railing, breathing fast, and Mark takes a better look at her face.

She looks terrible. Her tan hasn't faded, but the skin beneath is wiped of color. Dark circles surround her eyes. She's in jeans and a T-shirt, with a dark blue windbreaker over the T-shirt despite the heat of the day.

"Erin, are you feeling all right?"

"Huh?" Erin blinks up at him, and a smile makes her face look slightly less haggard. "I'm all right. What's so important that you needed to see me now?"

"Uh…" Mark hesitates, scratching at his ear. "Would you mind coming back to my room for a bit? This… might take some explaining."

"All right." Erin's smile only grows. "I'll come back to your room anytime you want."

"That's not… I mean…" Mark can feel himself blushing. "I've got something _serious _to talk to you about."

"Oh? So it's not just about the Independents' meeting last night?" The smile fades from Erin's face, curiosity and wariness taking its place.

"Well… yes and no." Shaking his head, Mark opens the door to the stairwell and holds it for her. "Come on, let's go get comfortable and I'll explain."

She follows him back to his room without comment, settling down on the couch with apparent relief. A shiver travels up and down her body.

"Are you _sure_ you're all right?" Mark settles down on the other side of the couch from her.

"I'm _fine_." There's an annoyed edge to Erin's voice, and she straightens in her corner of the couch.

"All right. It's just a little weird that you're shivering and wearing a coat when it's ninety degrees outside, but to each their own."

"It's nothing. I'm fine." Erin sounds more like she's talking to herself than to him, and her eyes are fixed on her hands in her lap. Then she raises her head, and her smile reappears. "Now, tell me. What was so important that Eric needed to talk to everyone ASAP last night?"

"Well… oh man. This is complicated." Where does he even start? "You know how I asked you yesterday if you've been having any weird dreams?"

Erin manages to pale even further, something that Mark would have said was impossible. "I remember. It was a weird question."

"_Have_ you been having any weird dreams?" This will be much easier if they can start with that common ground.

"No." Erin shakes her head emphatically, her voice a soft whisper. "No, I haven't."

"Right. So… this might be a lot harder for you to believe then." Drawing a deep breath, Mark tries to decide where to start. "I suppose… you've been reading that book still, right? You said that you'd met Courfeyrac and the others?"

"You and your book." A fond, wistful smile replaces the tension that had grown in Erin's expression. "Yes, I've met Courfeyrac and his crazy friends."

"And do they… remind you of anyone?" He's going about this all wrong.

At least it makes him feel slightly better than he's fairly certain there isn't a _right_ way to go about it.

Erin just stares at him, confusion and amusement vying in her features.

"So, uh, trying to put this simply… the Independents seem to be largely made up of reincarnated versions of people who lived and died in France in 1832, including Courfeyrac and the rest of Les Amis de l'ABC. There's a shadow-monster torturing us in our dreams, and it's somehow managed to resurrect the… the psyches of the people that we had been, the memories and thoughts. Like, the people that we were in our past lives. I was Marius. These are the people that the book I leant you was writing about." Mark smiles tentatively. "I swear I'm not crazy. The others will back me up on this."

"Say…" Erin's voice is a threadbare whisper, low and husky. "Say that name again?"

"What name? Mine? Marius."

"No." Erin jumps off the couch, backs toward the door, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on him. Her hands have gone to her chest, fists pressed tight against the jacket. "No, no, no, no—"

"Erin, it's all right." Standing, Mark moves slowly towards her. What's going on? How has this gone wrong so quickly?

"It's not real." Erin shakes her head, tears standing in her eyes. "'s not real, 's just dreams, 's not—"

"It's all right, Erin." This is bad. This is really, really bad, and Mark suddenly has visions of Con with Eric's blood all over his hands filling his mind. "Erin, I promise, it's all right, it—"

Erin shakes her head, and when she speaks the words are in French. "I killed you. I'm so sorry. I… I…"

Mark doesn't have time to decide whether or not he should wake Marius fully and shove him to the forefront before Erin's body hits the floor.


	19. Part Nineteen: Standing Together

**Author's Note:** I'm going to be out of town and away from the Internet for over a week due to a funeral. This means that the next chapter of this and "Belonging" will both be delayed for a week because my beta and I won't be able to talk to each other. I apologize for the delay. Thanks so everyone who's reviewed, and I hope you guys continue to enjoy!

_Part Nineteen: Standing Together_

Mark's voice is quick and panicked over the phone, cutting in before Jona can even say hello. "If someone passes out because of this shadow-monster stuff, should I call an ambulance or… or… or I don't know what else, but something else?"

Jona pauses, his fingers suddenly tight around his water glass as he stares straight ahead at nothing. Panic tries to rise, a gut-wrenching terror, but he doesn't give it a chance to. If someone's unconscious, there isn't _time_ to panic. Instead he starts snapping questions back at Mark. "Who and how long've they been unconscious?"

"Erin, and, uh… ninety-eight seconds. I called Cori first and he said to call you and I don't know—"

"Deep breath, Mark." It helps Jona to focus, having to help keep Mark calm, and he waves Lyle and Maria back to the couch when they look over at him questioningly. "Is there any blood? How's her breathing? Has she shown any signs of coming around? You're sure it's related to the shadow?"

"There's no blood. She's breathing all right. I've been afraid to touch her much. I'm pretty sure it's shadow-related. She was talking in French, apologizing to me, and then she just… collapsed. She's really pale—she was before she passed out, and she is now, and… oh." Mark's sigh of relief is clearly audible. "She's starting to come around. Should I call an ambulance?"

"If she's coming around, ask her how she feels and if she needs one. If she says she does, or if she's not talking very much or not very coherent, just call one. They might not understand soul-eating monsters, but whatever it's doing to our bodies paramedics should be able to help with." Jona's body slowly relaxes, though he can feel his fingers shaking slightly from the adrenaline rush. "If she says she's all right and she can walk, bring her over here. I'm not a doctor yet, but I'll believe her about any soul-monster things and I've got a few odds and ends I can use to try to figure out what happened."

"All right." Gratitude and relief fill Mark's voice. "I'll give you a call if we're going to come over. Otherwise I'll see you tonight."

With that the line goes dead. Jona stares at his cell phone for a moment before sliding it shut and shaking his head.

Lyle comes up to him, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows raised in inquiry. "Everything all right?"

"No. Erin just passed out on Mark, and he's pretty sure it's related to the shadow-monster. They—ow! Flutter, that's my toe." Picking up the offending feline, Jona buries his fingers in her fur. "If she's up for it, they're coming over here. Otherwise he's escorting her to the hospital."

_What kind of tools do we have?_ Joly's voice is curiosity overlaying thrumming tension.

"Lots." Jona finds himself grinning despite the situation. It's not often that he has someone who thinks his collection of medical equipment is anything other than strange. "Lyle, if you'd be so kind as to help me get some things set up…?"

If he's going to have to play doctor, he's going to do it to the best of his ability.

XXX

Erin blinks and forces herself slowly into a sitting position. The world does a sideways tilt and roll, and she closes her eyes again with a groan but manages to stay sitting up. What happened? Why does she feel like someone beat her over the head with a baseball bat and then kicked her in the chest with steel-toed shoes for good measure?

_Who are you?_

The question is a hiss in her mind, frightened, wary, angry, the words strongly accented but recognizable.

"Who're _you_?" Pushing herself backward until her spine is resting against the wall, giving her some support, she forces her eyes open again and looks around.

Only Mark is present in the room, his expression troubled as he reaches toward her slowly with his right hand, his cell phone clutched hard in his left hand. "It's me, Erin. It's Mark. How are you feeling? Do you recognize me? Do you know who I am? Do you know who _you_ are? Do—"

"I can only answah one question at a time, Mark." Staring at him, Erin finds amusement and exasperation overriding fear, and she smiles. "I'm Erin. You're Mark. I'm… I'm fine. What happened?"

"You just passed out for over two minutes in my living room." Mark tries to smile, but it's a forced, frightened expression. "Do you remember what we were talking about before that?"

"Um… that book of yours, wasn't it? And the Independents. And…"

Erin can feel the blood drain from her face again, and the room tilts as she remembers what Mark had been saying… remembers what she saw in the dream.

_Me._ The voice belongs to a young woman—younger than Erin, though not by too much. _I saw it. I lived it. That thing attacked _me_. And you… you helped me._

It's why the other woman hasn't attacked her. It's why the other woman is watching her closely, their thoughts side-by-side, not quite mingling. It's why they're currently wary allies rather than bitter enemies, despite being locked together inside the same body.

It's impossible.

It's terrifying.

It means she's crazy.

"Is her name Eponine?" Mark's voice is soft and hesitant, but his expression is hopeful. "Are you hearing Eponine?"

_Eponine._ The other woman's voice caresses the name. _Yes. That's me. That's mine. And he is Marius._

"Marius?" Erin whispers the word, watching Mark.

He grins, an expression of absolute delight, and clasps both her hands tight in his, dropping his cell phone on the floor. "It _is_ you! You're Eponine! Erin, this is amazing."

"I…" Erin shakes her head, though she clenches her fingers tighter around his. "I don't have any idea what's going on. And being Eponine wouldn't be amazing. Her life _sucked_. Believe me. I've lived something close enough to it…"

"I know. I'm sorry. But she's strong and brave and smart despite what she lived through, even if she was a little bit crazy by the end, and…" Mark draws a deep breath, reaching up to smooth hair away from her eyes. "And she didn't kill Marius. He survived the barricades. He was one of the very few who survived, and went on to live a good life."

_He didn't die?_ Eponine's words are uncertain, a mixture of relief and disappointment that Erin can tell the other woman doesn't want to admit to. _Did they succeed, then? Did they do what they set out to do? Did they really manage to make a better world?_

"I don't know." Erin shakes her head, blinking back tears with a frustrated, strangled gasp. "I don't know anything about France or about any barricades. This is all real though, isn't it? You aren't crazy. I'm not crazy. This is real, and that thing…"

Erin curls up into a tighter ball, her knees in front of her chest, her arms hugging her knees as she remembers the pain of last night. That _thing_, whatever it was, tore something from them, something important, something that _belongs_ to them, and even though it happened in a dream her body is bruised and aching because of it.

_It hurt._ Eponine remembers the pain, but it isn't as daunting for her. _We're alive, though. We'll heal._

_You're…_ It takes Erin a moment to make sure she's doing this properly, to make sure that Eponine can understand her. _You're really handling this quite well._

_I'm alive. He's alive._ Eponine's thoughts pause, hesitant. _He's Marius, isn't he? A different Marius, but Marius still, pride and chivalry and intelligence and gentleness and grace that has no right to exist. And he talks with us. He gives us books. He _talks_ with us about _books_._

She won't cry for herself. She gave up crying for herself long ago, because it just made it easier for people to hurt you if you did. Crying for other people is usually a pointless task, too, but Erin can still feel tears building as Eponine's surprise and joy and disbelief flood through her.

"Erin?" Mark's fingers are gentle on her cheek. "Do I need to call an ambulance?"

"Hell no." Erin shakes her head and glares up at him. "I'm fine. I don't need t' try explainin' t' my folks why they've got t' do paperwork and pay and all that for a doctor's bill."

"Money shouldn't be a factor. If you're not feeling well still—"

"Money's _always_ a factor, Mark." The correction comes out gentler than she expected it to.

He frowns at her, clearly not convinced.

"Besides, what's wrong with me isn't somethin' a doctor can fix." Unzipping her windbreaker, Erin parts the fabric so that he can see the top portion of the bruise. "I feel awful 'cause a bastard shadow attacked Eponine last night and sank its claws into her chest. I woke up with this and not feelin' good."

Mark's eyes widen as he takes in the bruise on her chest. His fingers reach toward it for a moment before he blushes and snatches them back. "That's not good."

"No." She smiles, a dark chuckle building in her throat. "No, 's not good."

"If you won't let me take you to the hospital, then we're going to Jona's. He said that he has some tests he can run on his own." Mark takes her hand and pulls gently until she's standing.

The world only tilts a little bit, but she still leans against him, glad to have someone else warm and solid to rest against.

"You're also coming with me to meet with the others tonight, prior engagement or not." Mark's voice is determined, something she's not used to hearing from him. "Eric and the others are really going to want to know about this."

XXX

"Why do you have a… whatever that is?" Mark gestures to the tiny machine that's currently whirling in a circle on Jona's desk.

"It's a centrifuge." Jona finishes setting a timer and beams up at Mark, clearly proud of himself. "Actually, it's a microcentrifuge, but they're pretty much the same thing except for scale. This one has two adaptors, one for doing PCVs and one for spinning down urine or other fluid samples, and—"

"It's a very neat little toy he got that can occasionally be useful when he needs to know how many blood cells he or someone else has." Maria smiles fondly up at Jona, though she stays by Erin on the couch. "Usually himself, because he's convinced he's dying of some strange anemia or other."

Erin looks warily up at Jona as he approaches her again. She has a piece of white gauze wrapped around the finger that he poked to get a blood sample.

"Still feeling all right?" Jona's voice is gentle as he unwraps the gauze from Erin's finger.

"Feelin' the same as before." Erin shrugs, looking over at Mark, but she lets Jona look at her hand.

"Good. Tell me if you start feeling more light-headed or anything." Jona picks up another tiny stylet. "I need just a little more blood for the glucometer. Do you want me to do the same finger or a different one?"

Sighing, Erin looks determinedly away. "Same one. Might as well only have one finger that hurts."

Jona nods. "It'll make this one more sore, but it's kind of six of one, half a dozen of the other." Swabbing at the finger with an alcohol swab, he positions the stylet. "All right. Three, two, one…"

Erin doesn't flinch as the stylet releases. Jona carefully massages her finger, and a single drop of crimson wells up on the tip of Erin's finger.

Turning away, Mark tries not to let the blood bother him. He's seen far more blood—well, Marius has, and he's been a tag-along to the party.

"Blood glucose is normal." Jona has a tiny plastic box in one hand that he looks at as he speaks. Setting that aside, he massages another drop of blood out of Erin's finger and places in on a glass slide. Grabbing another slide, he spreads out the drop before placing the bloody slide down on a microscope.

"Why do you have a microscope? And a… whatever that blood glucose thing was?" Mark stares at the equipment as he asks the questions. It's easier to think about what's wrong with Jona than to consider what happened to Erin.

Jona sighs. "I have a microcentrifuge and a microscope because I've been collecting random bits of medical equipment since I was fourteen. Every job I've had, I've taken whatever they'll give me. Just about anyone can get a glucometer and stylets and insulin syringes, so those aren't a big deal. One of the perks of diabetes being so common, I guess."

Taking the glass slide over to a set of three vials on the dining table, Jona pokes experimentally at the blood before placing the slide into the first vial, which is full of blue liquid. "I'm no doctor, like I said, but if you work in hospitals and doctor's offices long enough you pick some skills up. Then it was just a matter of me making sure that I had the tools to make use of my skills."

"So do those skills tell you what that shadow-thing do to me?" Erin has her finger swaddled in gauze again, and her arms are crossed over her chest defensively.

Shrugging, Jona moves the blood slide to the next little vial, which is full of red liquid. "Gave you one of the nastiest contusions I've ever seen."

Maria pats Erin's leg. "He means that bruise on your chest is very impressive."

"It better be." Erin smiles at the other woman. "Hurt enough that it should be."

The timer goes off, and Jona stops the centrifuge and pulls out a thin glass tube filled with blood. Holding the tube up against a strange chart, Jona frowns at it. "Hey, Erin, have you had any… serious injuries lately? Any reason you should be missing a lot of blood?"

Erin shakes her head, slowly.

"Well, I found out the reason that you're dizzy and cold, though I don't have a good explanation for how it happened." Jona sets down the tube, expression grim. "You're missing about a third of your blood volume."

Erin blinks up at Jona. "You're sure?"

"Definitely sure." Moving the blood slide down to the last vial, a dark purple liquid, Jona stares at the little tube of blood still held in his right hand. "I don't know how, but apparently that thing made off with about… twelve, thirteen percent of your red blood cells. It's not an obscenely dangerous amount, not enough that they'd risk giving you a blood transfusion, but… damn, that's a lot of blood to lose. I'll take a look at the blood slide in a minute, make sure that the cells haven't broken and there aren't fragments anywhere, but if they're not…"

"So it either destroyed or made off with a lot of my blood. That's… bad." Erin's voice is faint, and her left hand reaches out toward Mark over the arm of the couch.

Taking her hand in his, Mark very gently squeezes her fingers, careful not to move the gauze. "Don't worry. We'll figure it out. It's going to be all right."

Mark would probably do a better job of convincing her of that if he could believe it a bit more strongly himself, but she still smiles and squeezes his hand in return.

XXX

"It still sounds antagonistic." Grant tries to make his voice sound certain rather than worried—there's no need for him to be worried.

He's doing what Eric asked him to do. He's managed to make copies and look up dates already without anything going terribly wrong, and Eric _asked_ him to proof-read the pamphlet. Correcting things is what proof-reading is about. He's not arguing with Eric.

It helps that Eric doesn't seem upset about any of Grant's suggestions. He just stares at the sentence that Grant's highlighted in red, his head tilted slightly to one side. "Perhaps it does sound a bit antagonistic. I don't want it to sound too weak, though. Queer rights are one thing that there isn't any compromising on."

"And I wouldn't want there to be. You're not really one to compromise, after all, and since your best friends are part of the community in question I can understand why you wouldn't want to, not that you would compromise even if you didn't have a personal investment in it, I just—"

"You're just doing what I asked. You're just using that ability of yours to see the flaws in things, to help me make a better finished product." Eric smiles at him. "Don't be so nervous. I want you to stand beside me, Grant. In your own way, with your own skills."

_We're trying._ Grantaire's response is a frustrated moan. _It's a very hard place to stand for long, though. Some of us weren't born with wings._

_But he's trying to help us build some._ Grant finds himself relaxing, taking in Eric's easy body language, the serious but untroubled way in which he studies the suggestions that Grant's made. It's like how Eric tends to be with Con and Cori and Finny and Lyle and Jona and… and _everyone_ he cares about, really, with all of the Independents but Grant, and he likes it.

He really, really likes it.

"You think a definition guide for transgender versus transsexual versus transvestite is needed?" Eric picks up the lap-top, his fingers tapping against the side for a moment before he erases one of the words Grant had highlighted.

"You said this is for the university, right? For freshman? Then hell yeah. You're going to have kids coming in from all over, all walks of life. Some are going to agree with you, some are going to be antagonistic, but I'm guessing the vast majority just haven't thought about these topics too much. And especially where you're telling them to get out and vote on this, give them as much information as you can. And try not to make it too boring. They'll be bored enough with class. You can try bright colors, maybe. Or… or some kind of game, a crossword or—"

"I don't want it to seem like we're talking down to them. Talking down to people is a good way to make them stop listening." Eric glances up at Grant and smiles again. "Keep going, though. Sometimes it's when you ramble off a thousand ideas that you find the one you need."

"I'm not sure I have a thousand." It's impossible not to return Eric's smile. "I suppose you could—"

A knock at the door interrupts Grant's thoughts, and he jumps, a shiver going down his spine.

He doesn't think he used to be this paranoid or easily startled. Another thing he can chalk up to the shadow, he supposes.

"Come in." Eric checks his watch as the apartment door opens. "Everyone's going to be here soon. If it's all right with you, Grant, I'm going to go hole up in our bedroom for a few minutes and try to do a quick polish of this draft before the meeting starts. Entertain our guests?"

Grant smiles as Barry and Lyle enter, kicking their shoes off once they're inside the door. "I think that's one task I can do reasonably well."

"You? Entertaining? Never." Lyle's smile takes most of the sting out of the words.

Most, but not all, because Grantaire is busy panicking in the back of his mind, and it takes Grant a moment to sort out why.

Grant wasn't there for the meeting last night. He failed his friends, missing out on them trying to determine how to survive this new, weird threat that they're facing.

But Grantaire missed the _revolution_. He slept through all of his friends dying, though he knows how they all fell. He's seen it happen often enough over the last few months, the shadow's taunts in his ear, reminding him that he was never worthy to stand with any of them, let alone die with Enjolras.

"It's good to see you, Grant." Barry gives him a rough clap on the shoulder. "We missed you yesterday. We were just about ready to call out the cavalry to go find you."

"Eric found me." The words sound flat, but flat is better than scared or guilty or any of the other emotions that are currently trying to tangle up his tongue. "He filled me in on what happened."

"All's well that ends well, then." Lyle throws himself down on the couch next to Grant. "Thanks for helping Con and Jona get on the right track with figuring out what's going on."

Grant flinches back, his eyes closing, because these men shouldn't be thanking him. He should be thanking _them_, for tolerating him, for not hating him.

"You don't look so good." Barry settles down on the other side of Grant, his eyes flicking towards where Eric disappeared down the hallway to their room. "Did we come at a bad time?"

"No." Grant shakes his head. "No, it's been a good day. I've been helping Eric."

He catches the looks of surprised skepticism that his two friends share and sinks down a little further on the couch.

"That's good." Lyle smiles, an honest, pleased smile, though there's a bit of hesitancy underneath it still.

Does he not believe Grant? Does he think Grant's lying, exaggerating to try to make it seem like he's more worthy of being with Eric and the rest of them?

Grant closes his eyes, suddenly finding himself wanting a drink again, badly. Drinking never makes the doubts go away, but it makes them… more distant, more manageable, something to be joked about rather than something to drown in.

"All right, what's the matter?" Barry's hand is rough on Grant's shoulder, a fierce push that sends Grant sprawling over Lyle.

Lyle's hands are gentle as he helps Grant sit back up. "It's not like you to be morose and quiet, Grant. Is there something you need to talk about?"

"I'm sorry." He clears his throat, trying to make the words come out straight, trying not to sound weak and pathetic even if that's how he feels. "About not being here last night, about… about running away, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. It was stupid. It won't happen again. And Grantaire's sorry. He's so damn sorry, you have no idea, it wasn't supposed to turn out that way, you weren't all supposed to—… it wasn't supposed to be like that."

He feels like his chest is on fire, like his mind is filled with cotton, and he can smell gunpowder smoke in the air, stronger than the reek of alcohol from his own body, stronger than the scents of blood and viscera and death that loft through the air on the weak wind.

"Grantaire first?" Lyle's voice seems like it comes from far away, and though he can feel the other's hands on his shoulders it's a disconnected, distant sensation.

"Grantaire first." Barry's hand grips Grant's chin, turns his head until he's blinking at the other man. It's not Barry who speaks, though, the words in French, sharp, cutting. "You're going to apologize by making me work more, then?"

"No." Grantaire speaks slowly, taking control as Grant slips back, and the burning fire in his chest lessens a bit. "No, Bahorel, but… how can you stand to sit beside me?"

"You did make a fair bit of an ass of yourself." Bahorel releases Grantaire's chin, though his other hand stays on Grantaire's shoulder. "When even Courfeyrac tells you to be quiet, you should listen. But you couldn't have known what was going to happen. None of us could. You could have woken up to a victory, a grand new Republic. Or you could have woken up to another stolen revolution, another 1830, trading one tyrant for a less gaudy one."

"I could have not slept. I could have not gotten drunk—or at least not _so_ drunk." Closing his eyes, Grantaire draws a deep breath, still startled at the sharp bite of the cool air in the heat of summer. "I could have not embarrassed myself and you and… and him."

"You died with him. With Enjolras." Bossuet's voice is quiet contemplation as his arm circles Grantaire's shoulders. "Is that true? Has it been showing truth with that?"

"Yes." Opening his eyes, Grantaire studies Grant's palms, the flecks of paint still caught under his nails. "He allowed it. I don't know why. After all… after everything, I didn't deserve it, but he allowed it."

"Death isn't something you deserve. It's something that happens." Bahorel pulls his hand away. "You don't see me apologizing for dying first."

"That's… different." Shaking his head, Grantaire gropes for the right words. "You… you all fought bravely. You fought for what you believed in. You _died_ for it, in beautiful, terrible ways. But me—"

"You died for what you believed in." Bossuet's arm tightens around his shoulders. "You died for him. You died speaking the words of our cause."

"I wish I fought beside you. I wish…" He wishes it had gone differently. He wishes he could have changed it. He wishes they hadn't _all_ died, all his friends, the most amazing people he's ever known.

"Wishes are for people who won't do things." Bahorel's fist taps gently against Grant's cheek. "If you want, I can punch you for being an idiot, but I don't think it's necessary. I forgive you. I'm glad to have you back with us. I'm sure the others are going to feel the same way. Especially since you _did_ help us this time, Grantaire. You and Grant, showing us what this monster is… you helped us a lot."

"I hurt Enjolras." The words aren't any easier whether they refer to him as Eric or Enjolras, the past or the present.

"Enjolras is just fine." Bossuet grins. "Talking to him last night, talking to everyone… I never would have imagined something like this, Grantaire. To die and then to live again… to see how the world has changed… to see a world where a Republic is _expected_, is simply par for the course—"

"Is abused and corrupted and mangled." The words come from Grant, but Grantaire understands the dark frustration behind them.

"That's why we're going to fix it. That's why we're going to help change things." Bahorel stands, pacing to the window and gazing down at the cars parked outside. "Or they are. However we're supposed to refer to future-us. _Future us_. Grantaire, how can you be depressed at a time like this? We're _alive_. We're _together_. We're in a world with _cars_ and _television_ and _movies_ and _video games _and more weapons and fighting styles than I've ever imagined!"

"And that's saying something." Grantaire can feel a smile tugging at his lips as he watches Bahorel declaim about Grant's world.

"The past is done. We all lived and died as well as we could." Bossuet's hand drops from around Grantaire's shoulders to clasp his hand tightly. "Be proud of what you did well, and move forward. Always move forward."

"You really forgive me?" His voice breaks on the word _forgive_, but he can't help it.

Bossuet's fingers are tight around his. "I forgive you."

"I expect us all to do better this time around." Bahorel throws himself back down onto the couch, his hands running over the soft fabric, a look of absolute glee on his face. "But of course I forgive you."

_How do we always end up with such amazing people?_ Grant's words are a quiet, awed whisper. _We aren't worthy. Not by a long shot._

_But they accept us._ Grantaire allows his mind to sink back, surrendering control of Grant's body back to him. _And we're going to be worthy of them. This time, we're going to be worthy of them._

"We'll try." Grant whispers the words, flexing his fingers and studying his hands, shivering as he takes back control of his body. "Thank you guys. And I'm sorry I missed last night. Eric filled me in on all the big things, I think. On the shadow and all of you guys connecting with your… other selves, past lives, whatever you want to call them. Man, we need to come up with a standard lexicon. Hopefully I won't be too lost when we start discussing things tonight."

"There was one other thing." Lyle shifts away from Grant, his hand suddenly tense in his lap, his eyes downcast. "It was pretty obvious during the meeting, and then it became _really_ obvious and… oh, hell. Jona and Maria and I are all dating."

Grant blinks at Lyle.

"Each other." Lyle raises his eyes, determined, but there's still fear in the tension of his shoulders, of his arms.

Grant nods, slowly, trying to process the words.

"Like… all of us." Lyle's fingers twine together and break apart, nervous energy venting itself. "We have been for a while."

"Oh." Grant nods again, because he's not sure what else to do. "Sorry I missed the signs. Congratulations, I guess?"

"You didn't miss anything. We were trying to be kind of discreet about it." Lyle winces, pulling back slightly. "Not that we thought you guys would… it's just… it's hard. Being bisexual isn't all right with a lot of people still. Being polyamorous… but we should have told you all. We should have been upfront with you guys, at least. We just… you guys have always meant a lot to me. Ever since we first became friends, and I guess we know why now, and Jona felt the same way. We didn't want to lose you guys over something so… silly."

"And you won't. Damn, Lyle, compared to everything _I've_ done, this is nothing." Pulling Lyle into a rough hug, Grant forces words out through the tight knot in his throat. "It's _good_. You and Jona and Maria always look happy together, so… it's good."

"It _is_ good. It's strange, but it's good, just like everything else about us." Barry laughs, a wry, pleased sound as he lounges on the other side of the couch. ""Does that take care of all the serious stuff for the moment? I'm sure we're going to end up with more later, once everyone's here, but I was thinking maybe we can do something fun in the meantime."

Pulling away from Lyle, Grant swallows and nods. Compared to everything else that's happened in the last few days, this little revelation about his best friends is nothing. Well, it's strange and it's disorienting and he still feels kind of like an idiot for not noticing, but it's nothing _important_. "Yeah. I think I'd like some fun not-serious stuff for a few minutes."

XXX

"We're all here." Eric speaks quietly, more to himself than to anyone else as he surveys the crowded living room.

"We are." Grant answers anyway as he hands over the plate of food that he had prepared for Eric.

Finny stands next to Cori, radiating nervous energy, a fierce scowl on his face. Erin stays at Mark's side, the two of them drifting from Cori to Jona and back as everyone settles down.

And, of course, Grant is here now.

Damn, he was an idiot to miss this last night.

He's not supposed to dwell on that, though. He's not supposed to think about what happened, but about what _can_ happen, so he forces the thought away—as well as he can, anyway.

_Almost all of Les Amis._ All but Jehan, and Grantaire misses the poet's presence sharply for a moment before remembering what Eric said about the shadow not seeming to know where Jehan was, either. Perhaps he's safer than the rest of them, being alone.

"Almost all of the Amis. All of the Independents_._" Eric seems to echo Grant's thoughts. Smiling, Eric picks at the rice on his plate. After a moment he frowns down at it. "Grant, exactly how much food do you think we need to eat?"

Grant can feel his face heating but just shrugs. He had tried to put a little bit of everything that he knows Eric's eaten in the past on the plate, but he might have gotten a bit carried away. "Whatever you don't want can go in the fridge."

"True enough." Eric continues to smile as he looks down at the plate and shakes his head. The smile fades after a moment, though, and he raises somber blue eyes to survey the room. "Now that the troops are gathered, time to share intelligence and plan strategy."

Settling down in front of the window, Eric raises his voice just slightly and pitches it to carry through the susurrus of the Independents and the Amis talking in a mixture of French and English. "Is everyone ready to start?"

They don't answer him in words. Instead they settle down, Con on one side of Eric, Grant on the other. Finny sits between Cori and Con, while Mark clings to Cori's other side as though afraid he's going to be turned aside. Erin sits between Mark and Maria; Jona sits on Maria's other side, Lyle next to him; and after snatching up another box of fried rice Barry sits between Grant and Lyle, completing the crowded circle.

"Erin." Eric's voice is gentle but commanding, managing to turn her name into a question and a request.

Erin glares over at him, tension in her shoulders, determination in her face despite her pale skin and the dark circles around her eyes. "Y' want me t' start?"

"I think it would be best." Eric meets her eyes evenly. "Jona said that something important happened to you last night."

"Important. Yeah." A snort of laughter is Erin's response, and her hand rests lightly on her chest. Opening her windbreaker, she displays an impressive dark-purple bruise that starts between her collarbones and plunges down into her shirt. "I don't really know what t' start. I was dreaming about bein' Eponine. There was a… a monster. I've seen it before, a few times. It says… awful things, about what a monster Eponine was, about how we just destroy everything, about how we're worthless…"

"Lies." Eric's eyes narrow as he watches the way Erin's shoulders hunch as she speaks, the way her eyes drop down, a haunting fear and pain showing.

"Yeah?" Smiling wryly, Erin shakes her head. "Doesn't matter. The other dreams, the monster's said that it _could_ take… something from me if it wanted to, has said that it'd be easy with me, but it hasn't done anything more than scare us. This time… this time it hit hard, showed us Mark—Marius—dying, an' then… then it…"

Mark's hand slides over one of Erin's, and she clings to him.

Erin's eyes close, and when she begins speaking again it's clearly Eponine in control, the words in French. It's a strange juxtaposition, worse than Grant's used to seeing with any of the others. Eponine's posture is more hunched, more wary, her eyes just a little bit more dilated, giving her a fierce, wild, unpredictable look. "It sank its claws into my chest. There was blood, and pain, and I felt like it was… takin' something. Taking part of _me_. Erin hurt, too, same as me. And the monster asked… it asked how much of my _being_ I would let it carve out. It asked how much of _myself_ I would let it take."

Horrified silence holds the group as everyone watches Eponine. The woman glares back at all of them, one hand pressed to her chest, the other still clinging tight to Mark.

It's a silence one of them needs to break, but Grant can't think of what to say. 'Sorry' doesn't seem adequate. 'That sucks' is a true statement but completely unhelpful. 'Thanks for scaring me' would also be true but unhelpful.

Eric speaks, in English, and Grant sees Maria relax, the perturbation that had been on her face as she watched Eponine speak vanishing. "How did the attack end? Did it let you go, or—"

"I pushed it away." Eponine speaks in accented English, the accent a mixture of French and Erin's usual street accent, and a feral grin pulls at her mouth though her hands are trembling. "I'm not to be used. I'm not some… some _plaything_, some… _fire_ source for that monster to carve out at its leisure. I pushed it away, tore its claws out of me, and it left."

"Fire source?" Con's voice is quiet but clear. "Why do you say that?"

"'Cause of what it said." Eponine's gaze darts to Con before returning to Eric. "It hates you, I think. You or one of the others, but since they're followin' you I'm guessin' you. It said it'll use 'him and his' to 'make the world burn'. It said to watch for the fireworks, and know that they were made in our names."

Con leans forward, his hands clasped together in front of him, tension in the line of his shoulders. "Is that all it said? Can you remember anything else?"

"It said… it said that it could start the conflagration now if it wanted to. Conflagration is a good word, don't you think? A big word for a big fire. An impressive word. A dramatic word." Eponine smiles over at Mark, who returns the expression with an uncertain smile of his own, his eyes troubled. "And it said that it'll have all your souls. It said that if it needs to buy your souls with power stolen from mine, then it will. But it can't have any more of me. I won't let it."

"We won't let it." Eric's jaw unclenches slowly as he speaks, tension draining out of him. For a moment Grant believes him, though they've still got no real way to fight the thing.

Well, he doesn't. Eric chased it away, so maybe Eric's figured something else out.

Eric continues, speaking to Eponine. "We're planning on staying together overnight, on trying to wake each other from the dreams. It'll also help if you could work with Erin. You'll find she's quite similar to you. Did Jona and Mark explain about the reincarnation—"

"Yeah." Eponine smiles up at Mark again. "Same soul, similar body, different mind. It's why Erin was there last night, and why she helped me."

Mark straightens uneasily. "Is Erin all right now?"

The smile fades from Eponine's face as she studies Mark. "She's fine. This was my story to tell, not hers. Do you dislike my company that much, Marius?"

"Mark. The English-speaking version is Mark. And no." Mark forces a smile, though there's more sadness in his eyes than joy. "I don't dislike your company. I think you're a wonderful, strong woman."

"Mark." The smile that graces Eponine's face as she says the name is terribly sad, and she slowly disentangles her fingers from his. "You're a kind man, Mark. And I'm glad that you're alive. I'm glad that Marius survived the barricades. Now, have your Erin back."

Erin jolts forward, her eyes wide and panicked for a moment. All it takes is Mark's hand on her shoulder, though, and she settles back down into her place in the circle. Blowing a strand of hair away from her eyes, she sighs and swallows hard. "Yeah. So. That's what happened."

"Now we just have to determine what it all means." Eric turns to Con. "At least it was kind enough to give us some information on what it's planning."

Con nods, his expression grim, tension still obvious in his shoulders and hands. "Who else dreamt last night?"

"Me." Eric holds up a hand. His expression falters just slightly as fear fills Con's face, Con turning sharply to stare at Eric in open dismay. "I'm fine, like I said. It… tried to finish what it started the night before. It tried to hurt us, but Enjolras and I were more prepared for it. When it moved in to do… what it did to Eponine to us, we attacked it. The dream… shifted for us. We had been disarmed and tied up, but the ropes snapped and we got a sword. It's possible to arm ourselves in a way that frightens it. The shadow ran away from us. It didn't give up, not at first, but it kept out of sight, kept away from us, and when we didn't break down it… left."

"I'm guessing that's when it came to me." Finny's voice is grim, his eyes narrowed, his hands clenched into fists in his lap. "The damn thing taunted Feuilly, showing him your deaths, the deaths of the people he was commanding, and then showing him his own death. It tried to go at our chest after that, while we were… dream-dead, I guess, but Feuilly wasn't playing its game. He remembered dying before. He remember watching all of you die before. That meant that even if though we'd been shot and we were dead he should be able to move, so he got up to keep fighting. That's when the monster tried to use us against each other. I… didn't handle it rifling through my life to torment Feuilly very well. I fought Feuilly for control of our… dream-body, I guess? Apparently this was a stupid thing to do. The shadow laughed. We stopped."

There's a pause, a brief moment of silence during which Finny's too-fast breathing is clearly audible.

Finny continues without any prompting, his eyes shifting from Con to Eric and back. "It said… it said a lot of things while it was tormenting us. It said that _he_ had annoyed it, and that I was too much like _him_ for my own good. It said that… it said that the world will burn, and it will be our fault. It said that it needed strength to break _his_ soul, and that it'll enjoy taking that strength from the rest of us. It said… it said that I had already given it what it needed, even though we kept it from touching us."

"I'm really not liking the repetition of burning as a theme." Cori laughs, a soft sound that Grant suspects is supposed to be reassuring but which sounds more frightened than anything else. "At least it's not calling us a feast anymore. I'd rather be a conflagration than a feast."

"Actually, it did call Feuilly a nice little morsel." Finny frowns. "We would probably have been more upset about that except for, you know, _everything else_ that was going on."

"Great." Cori sighs, his head falling forward dramatically. "We are a burning feast of little morsels. Fantastic."

Grant raises his glass of juice in toast. "A Mongolian barbecue of delicious flavors, as long as your preference is for two-century-old French soul."

Uneasy laughter fills the room, though the tension doesn't break entirely.

When the laughter fades Con speaks again. "Did anyone else dream?"

Maria raises her hand tentatively. "Maybe? I'm… not sure."

Jona wraps an arm around Maria's waist, holding her close. "I'm fairly certain it's a yes or no thing. And why didn't you tell us if you thought you dreamt about it?"

"That's just it. There _wasn't_ an _it_." Maria shrugs, biting at her bottom lip for a moment before sighing. "I dreamt about going to a… a tavern or a restaurant or something where there had been fighting. I was… it was hard. I was crying—grieving, for my boyfriends who had died in the fighting. But I don't remember any shadow being there. And I don't… I don't have a dead woman in my head, I don't think. I can't understand French. At least… I can't now. I think it felt like I was speaking French in the dream, but how well can you trust dream memories? I… can't remember much other than the dream, no memories of being with French-version you guys. So I don't know."

"Interesting." There's a thick accent to Eric's voice that lets Grant know more surely than any body language cues that Enjolras is in control. "Why is it always different with you? Because you didn't die with us? Because the shadow hasn't been working on you? Do you remember a name—your name in the dreams?"

"I…" Maria's eyes drop and she leans more heavily against Jona, frowning. "Ma… Mi… _Musi_…Musichetta?"

Grant can see Lyle and Jona both straighten, a mixture of hope and fear and uncertain denial filling their faces.

Jona's voice is ragged when he finally speaks. "That was her name. That was the name of my—Joly's—girl, back in 1832."

_She could be Musichetta. She looks enough like her, acts enough like her… that doesn't necessarily mean that she _is_, of course. _Grantaire isn't certain which way he wants to believe—if he wants this to be Musichetta, to see Joly happy and reunited with her, or if he wants Musichetta far away from this.

"You could be or you might not be Musichetta." Grant finds himself worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth as he watches Maria. He desperately wants a drink, but after the fiasco last night, drinking while the Independents are meeting—while Eric's working—seems like an absolutely terrible idea. "We don't know what woke their minds, why the Amis are separate from us."

"I woke to that monster torturing me." There's no bitterness in Enjolras' words, just simple truth. "I died. The next thing I knew I was reliving the barricades—lost in that world, trapped listening to its lies. I don't know why."

A chorus of assents comes from around the circle.

"Which came first, the monster or the minds?" Eric raises his eyes to meet Maria's worried gaze. "Do you think there might be Musichetta's mind and memories buried within you? It took… oh, four months of shadows and nightmares before we began to really understand and see each other, to talk to our past selves."

"I don't know." Maria shrugs, expression frustrated, helpless. "I don't know how you guys went about waking up your… your ghosts. It just seemed to _happen_. So I wouldn't know how to go about waking up Musichetta."

Grant shrugs, trying to remember how it felt when Grantaire first spoke to him, clearly and cleanly. They'd been working with Con and Jona, trying to figure out what was going on. They'd been listening to Enjolras, worrying about Eric… listening to Enjolras _scream_… Was it really less than forty-eight hours ago that this all happened? "It did just sort of happen. It was when we were focusing on the dreams, when we were… doing things that _they_ would have done while thinking about those memories and getting… emotionally invested, let's put it that way… that everything just… snapped into place. I think I'd been hearing him for a while, but I didn't… I couldn't properly _process_ it. It wouldn't… fit into my head."

After a moment Maria nods. "All right. I'll keep working on it. I'll keep an open mind and we'll see what happens. I'll make sure to keep you all informed of any dreams or strange voices that I'm hearing."

Con nods before scanning the circle again. "Did anybody else dream?"

A general murmur of negation and shaking of heads is his response.

"So it attacked three of us last night—Eric, Finny and Erin. Enjolras, Feuilly and Eponine." Con ticks off on his fingers as he names each of them. "Possibly a fourth—just because you didn't see it there doesn't mean that it _wasn't_ there, especially if you think you might have been Musichetta in your dreams, Maria. This thing is clever. It can be patient and it can hide. It had a pretty frustrating night. It couldn't get Eric. It couldn't get Finny."

Con hesitates, and Erin fills in the awkward silence, a self-deprecating grin on her face. "So it took the next best option. It took us."

"It took you because it's getting desperate." Cori speaks slowly, his brow furrowed.

Eric tilts his head to the side. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I think it's true." Cori grins. "And because it makes sense. Think about it. It's been working on this little project for four months now. It's got us on the ropes, exhausted, stressed, on the verge of tearing our _own_ souls apart… except then we go and get smart. Then we go and talk to each other. Then you scare the hell out of it, Eric, coming at it with a _sword_ when it's moved in for a simple kill. It goes from you to Finny, already frustrated, already nervous. It tries to shove Finny and Feuilly into a conflict, and they stubbornly decide to get along instead."

"Eventually." Finny grimaces. "After a little bit of blood and a fair amount of pain."

"Still." Cori's excitement is contagious, and Grant watches as Mark, Barry, and Lyle all slowly relax. It's harder to read Eric and Con. "We screwed up its plans. It said we annoyed it—I think we scared the hell out of it. So it did what it could to get back at us. It upped the ante. It tried to take Erin's soul, but it couldn't even manage _that_."

"Thanks." Erin mutters the word.

"I didn't mean it like that." Shaking his head, Cori continues to grin. "I meant it as a good thing, Erin. It couldn't take everything it wanted. It left you alive, still you, just… a little bit bruised. You _won_. We all won."

Jona grimaces. "If that's winning, I'd hate to see losing. What that thing did to her didn't just give her a nasty bruise. She's missing about a third of her blood volume."

"Oh." Cori settles back, some of the exuberance fading from his face. "That's… not good, huh?"

"No, it's not good." Con studies Erin for a moment, his fingers taut against each other. Then he turns back to Cori. "Why do you think what it was after was her soul?"

"Because it told her so, and because it's the thing that makes sense. Two minds, one body, one soul. Something that hurts both minds has to be hurting the body or the soul, and since her body was, I'm assuming, safe and sound in bed…" Shrugging, Cori looks questioningly at Erin.

"Yeah." Erin studies her hands. "I can't think of any way I lost that much blood or got a bruise like this in the real world, so it must've been… what the shadow did to us."

"Hence soul." Eric nods. "I know it's nothing compared to what happened to Erin, but I also ended up with scratches on my body that correspond to where the shadow tried to rip at Enjolras. So it's upsetting us, trying to weaken us, and then when we're weak... trying to take part of our souls? Which hurts our bodies?"

Eric turns to Con.

Con just shrugs helplessly. "Perhaps. It's a sound hypothesis. I can't think of anything that really contradicts it."

"So." Barry speaks up, his voice a rough rumble. "Things we've learned today. Never believe that you can't do something in the dream. Don't believe you can't hit something. Don't believe you can't attack something. Don't believe you're dead."

"Don't believe the dreams." Lyle's face is grim as he grips Jona's hand. "Never believe the dreams, period, which is easier said than done. Bossuet… it's hard to get through to him, at first, to make him listen to me. The dream… feels too real."

"That…" Frowning, Finny shakes his head and winces. "That's another thing it told us. It told us we _believe_ that world too easily."

Grant finishes the last of his drink. "Hard not to when it feels real."

"It's a matter of… balance." Eric speaks slowly, a barely-perceptible accent appearing and fading. Everyone else is quiet, patient, waiting for him to be done before charging on with the conversation. "It's finding the right balance between being in that world enough to affect it—to attack the shadow, to lure it close, to not wake up—and not being in it enough that it… hurts. That we lose track of what's real and what's not. Even though the physical injuries from most of the dream fade, when we're distressed, when we're hurt, the shadow's pleased. It gloats. It sees us as easier prey. So we have to keep that to a minimum. We have to be aware of what's real and what's not—to work with ourselves to keep it straight."

"In other words, what I said." Barry smiles. "Thing number two: don't let it fuck you up, because the more it fucks up your soul the worse off your body will be when you wake up."

"Assuming you do wake up." Jona winces and flinches back as Maria and Lyle glare at him. "Well, it's true. If Erin breaking away from that thing still left her with a hematocrit in the low twenties, imagine if it just kept feeding from her."

Con frowns at Erin. "Where did all the blood go?"

Erin just shrugs.

"Did you have blood on your bed when you woke up?" Finny asks.

"No." Shaking her head, Erin curls her body around her bruised chest again, an action that appears more instinctive than intentional. "All I knew when I woke up was that my chest hurt and the world was spinning."

Jona breaks in. "The dizziness and the passing out and the cold are all likely due to the blood loss. It should get better as your body adjusts and you start regenerating your blood. Which I'm sure you will be despite—"

Maria places a hand over Jona's mouth and smiles at Erin, giving her shoulder a gentle pat. "Ignore that. He's got a tendency towards paranoia. You're going to be just fine."

"Of course I will be." Erin smiles up at Mark again, expression once more open and tender and trusting. "Mark said I get to stay with him. We'll make sure neither of us gets eaten by shadow-monsters. At least not any more than we have been."

"Leaving me already?" Cori sighs theatrically. "And here I thought we had such fun last night, Mark."

Mark blushes bright red. "We did! I mean, we slept just fine. I mean—"

"Mark." Laughing, Cori leans over to place a hand on Mark's shoulder. "It's fine. I'm sorry. I shouldn't tease you like that. Are you and Erin comfortable staying on your own, or do you want me to come over to your place?"

"Would you mind coming over?" The relief on Mark's face is priceless.

The frustration and disappointment on Erin's, unfortunately, more than makes up for it.

"Oh…" Mark hesitates. "What about Con?"

Well, so much for him actually noticing that he's upsetting Erin.

Finny raises his hand. "I'll be playing the part of Cori and making sure Con doesn't become monster-chow. Unless people want to shift up sleeping arrangements more?"

Con sighs. "I want to have a house where we can all stay together and sleep in shifts and maybe keep the lights blazing all night, but failing that our current arrangement will work."

Patting Con's knee, Cori nods. "I agree that a giant sleepover would be fun. But we can barely all manage to sit in this room, let alone all sleep here, and it's the same at all our places. We'll manage. We'll be all right. We _won_ last night, Con."

"We won." Con's eyes dart between Erin and Eric, but after a moment he nods and gives a slight smile. "We're alive. We won. And I've been doing some research about what happened in 1832, if anyone else is interested."

"Yes." Eric answers immediately, leaning forward, his attention completely fixed on Con.

"Right. So." Con shifts uncertainly before taking a deep breath and launching into his speech. "France has a very complicated history. American students have trouble keeping track of one revolution and one civil war in our history; I think they'd die trying to keep track of France's. I'm fairly certain you all remember the French Revolution—or, rather, _they_ do. Trust their memories of it. They're accurate to the history books—or, in Combeferre's case, more in-depth than most of the history books by quite a long shot. The men that we were knew their history, their country, their politics. They knew what they were doing. We fought on the barricades in 1830, though that revolution didn't quite turn out the way we intended. Paris replaced one king with another, slightly better one in 1830, but we didn't get our republic. We died in 1832, in an uprising that would become known as the June Rebellion. We weren't the only ones. A lot of good people died on barricades during those days, or were imprisoned for their attempts to overthrow the monarchy. It was necessary, though. Peaceful protest, free speech, freedom of the press… we're worried about infringements on these rights now, but they didn't exist back then. We were part of the struggle to make it a reality. And it did, eventually, come to pass."

Con's face is dark, closed off, sorrow shining from his eyes, not matching the hope and victory in his words.

Courfeyrac is the one who finally approaches him, laying a gentle arm across his shoulders before speaking in French. "How terrible is the history of our beautiful land?"

"No more terrible than the history of any other land." It's Combeferre who speaks, who leans into Courfeyrac's touch, relief shining from him as he accepts the comfort. "It took so long, though. We had such dreams… The twentieth century will be beautiful, we said. And it was, in many ways. But it wasn't until _1958_ that a stable Republic was formed in France. There were _two world wars_, and so many smaller ones… There's been so much learned, so much developed, so much new technology, but the cost, Courfeyrac…"

Courfeyrac doesn't say anything. He simply lays his head on Combeferre's shoulder and continues to hold the other man.

After a few seconds Combeferre draws a shaky breath and smiles. "The cost of progress is always much higher than it should be. We knew that—we _know_ that. The important thing is that France does have her Republic—_many_ places have a Republic. The world has grown and changed."

"And we're here to help make sure it keeps changing in the right ways." Enjolras' hand settles on Combeferre's shoulder. "We're here to make sure that progress continues, that the price that is paid is as small as possible."

"_They_ are." Combeferre's hand covers Enjolras', and Grant finds himself looking away. This moment of openness and camaraderie isn't for them to watch, for them to be a part of. "We're here to kill a monster and ensure they get the chance to do what they need to do. And if we're still here when that's done, then yes, we will do everything in our power to help them to achieve their dreams. Our dreams. The world's dreams."

"And I think we will all gladly accept your assistance." Eric's voice is quiet, but the English still causes Grant to turn back to them. "Looking into this has been hard on you, Combeferre. Con. I wish it didn't have to be."

Combeferre closes his eyes, and Con shakes his head before opening them again. "No. I'm sorry for losing my composure. It's just been a couple hours' worth of dark reading. History isn't something to breezed through easily, especially when it's something we were rather personally invested in. What I—he—had intended to say is that the shadow's lying whenever it says that our deaths, our struggle, our choices made no difference. We were one small part of a large tapestry that eventually led to a better world."

Mark's voice breaks the silence, hesitant and cautious. "And we were impressive enough—dramatic enough—… _worthwhile _enough that we inspired Les Mis. Our story's still being told. We're _still_ inspiring people—well, dead versions of us are—two hundred years later. There… aren't that many people who can say that."

"No. No, there aren't. I think we need to read this book and see this play sometime. Though I'm… _he's_… honored that we made such an impact." Settling back in his place, Eric scans the circle. "That's all talk for another night, though. When the battle's closer to over, when we know more about what's going to happen to our… ghosts, then we can all talk more about what will or should happen with them. And more of us should actually read and see this story of yours before we get too worked up about it, Mark. Does anyone else have information on the shadow?"

No one answers.

Eric nods. "Does anyone want to talk about the war protest tomorrow or freshman orientation on Wednesday?"

Cori makes a disgruntled face. "Not unless it's about me becoming famous in another television clip."

"Of all the things to go viral…" Barry shakes his head. "You'd think it wouldn't be so surprising that people can be anti-specific-wars but not against the concept of soldiers or war in general."

"I know!" Cori sighs. "But apparently I just blew people's minds by saying that no, I don't hate and actually have a deep respect for soldiers, yes, I would be just fine fighting for a cause I believe in, and _hell no_, I don't want to be sent to another country where I'm basically an invading force there against the will of both my people back home and the people of the country we're invading. You can't force a revolution on people. You can teach them and arm them, but you can't beat democratic values and tolerance into anyone."

Barry grins. "Though it's sometimes fun to try."

Picking at the food on his plate, Grant shakes his head. "No, it's a whole lot easier to beat things _out_ of people than to beat something _into_ them."

Erin gives a strained little laugh. "And this conversation suddenly takes a turn for the awkward."

"We can do much better than that if you want awkward." There's sympathy in Cori's eyes, belying the bright grin on his face. "I'm pretty sure I have stories that would make the tabloids blush."

Maria laughs, draping herself across Jona's lap to lay a hand on Lyle's knee. Her cheeks are flushed, and there's a hint of hint of panic in the way her voice wavers, but she smiles anyway and keeps talking. "Clearly he isn't reading the right tabloids."

Turning a nice shade of tomato red, Jona stutters out something that might have been intended to be words. Grant can't tell what language they were supposed to be in, but the meaning's clear anyway as Cori and Barry and then the others laugh.

Jona's happy. The three of them are clearly happy, though also worried, nervous, and Grant suddenly hates everyone outside the Independents.

Jona and Lyle and Maria shouldn't have to be scared. Here, among their friends, they shouldn't have to be worried to be who they are, but once you learned fear it was hard to unlearn it.

Just like once you learned doubt it was hard to unlearn it.

"We'll call this meeting adjourned, then. Everyone's welcome to stay if you want to. Grant's got quite a few video games, there's popcorn somewhere in the cupboards, in theory there are movies under some of these stacks of books…" Eric stretches and stands. "Make yourselves at home. Or head out, whichever you want. We'll do roll call by cell phone each morning. If anything happens, let the rest of us know as soon as possible. And everyone try to sleep well."

It's a dismissal, but no one leaves. Instead they simply break apart into smaller groups, starting to chat again in a mixture of English and French. Barry starts digging through the collection of games, clearly talking to Bahorel and trying to explain the differences between first-person shooters, fighting games, and war strategy games. Cori turns to Mark and Erin, asking questions about Mark's apartment and where they can arrange sleeping quarters. Con asks Eric something Grant doesn't catch, and Eric makes his laptop appear by magic, the two of them quickly losing themselves in a discussion that Grant's not sure he could follow if he tried.

A beer suddenly appears in front of his nose, and his gaze travels up until he meets Lyle's smiling face. "Drink and a bad movie night? Or… are you not drinking?" Lyle's gaze drops to Grant's empty juice glass and he looks a little sheepish. "If you're trying to be sober, I can grab you some juice or water or something. I sure as hell don't want to interfere if you're—"

"No. At least, not yet. If I can, I'd prefer to drink in moderation, since I like drinking with you guys, as opposed to doing the whole 'I am an alcoholic and cannot control myself when alcohol is around, forgive me my sins, help me, God' AA thing. Partly because if God was going to help me, the bastard could've started by not making alcohol. Or alcoholics." Grant takes the beer and glances over at Eric. "If I can't control this, if I fuck up again, that's it, though. No more alcohol for me. Ever. I don't care what it takes."

"We'll help you. Whatever you decide to do, we'll help you, Grant." Lyle holds out his free hand to help Grant stand and releases the beer when Grant takes it. "Now, what's the worst movie you've got?"

"Um…" Mark breaks in tentatively. "If everyone wanted, I brought a movie version of the musical with me, so we could… you know… watch what they say about us."

Silence spreads out from Mark, and all eyes turn slowly to Eric.

After a moment Eric shrugs. "If everyone wants to, why not?"

Because watching themselves die is probably not going to be a very relaxing experience.

Because Grantaire's a little afraid of what they might say about him.

Because musicals really aren't Grant's thing.

On the other hand… on the other hand, people cared enough about them to write it down, to write songs about them, to make _movies_ about them.

Against his better judgment Grant finds his own voice joining the general chorus of assent.

He really hopes they won't regret this when the shadow comes for them tonight.


	20. Part Twenty: Standing Apart

**Author's Note:** Thank you all so much for your kind words and your patience while I was gone! Things went about as well as they could have, and I am now back home and trying to catch up on the writing. I intend to get both stories back on their regular weekly schedule now. Next chapter: Jehan and Cosette! Also, a little bit more Gary and James.

_Part Twenty: Standing Apart_

"I'm not in this."

Awkward silence greets Barry's disgruntled proclamation as the last bars of the finale fade away and Mark pauses the movie.

"I'm—he's—really not in this at all?" Barry scowls at the television, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Like I said _last_ time you asked, you don't have a named part, no." Mark's face is flushed, a mixture of amusement and frustrated chagrin in his expression as he turns to Barry. "There's an extra student revolutionary who's usually referred to as Bahorel in behind the scenes things, but you're not a named part."

"That _sucks_." Barry glares at the screen, as though that could change the outcome. "Why do I not get a named part? I mean, I get that we're clearly not the main focus, you weren't lying when you said we were secondary and tertiary characters, but everyone else _exists_."

"You're a big part of the book." Mark nudges Erin's arm. "You've met Bahorel in the book, right?"

"Uh… probably." Shrugging, Erin continues to hug her knees to her chest, a position she's held since Eponine's death. "There was a five-page section where all of the Amis had an introduction, so I'm sure he was in that. And maybe something about pants? I don't know. I haven't finished the book yet."

"Pants." Barry stares at Erin for a moment before allowing his head to fall forward theatrically. "I got so screwed."

"You're the first of the Amis to die in the book! I mean, Bahorel does. It makes a big impression. And you have other scenes that aren't you dying!" Mark makes the addition hastily as Barry raises his head to glare at him again. "There's this really funny part where you rip some church pamphlet off the wall and then back-talk to Enjolras when he tells you not to commit random acts of property destruction."

"I—_he_—remembers doing that." The scowl on Barry's face fades slightly, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "That was fun."

"The tearing down of the pamphlet or the arguing with Enjolras?" Cori's grin is infectious.

"Both." Barry sighs and stretches, barely managing to miss smacking Lyle in the head. "We had a good life last time around."

Eric finally manages to pull his attention away from the blank television screen. He's not sure what, exactly, he feels about the depiction of him—of Enjolras—this is still so utterly confusing…

He's not sure what he feels about the depiction of _Enjolras_ in the musical. Parts are right. Parts are perfect, and despite the little screen time that they have the actors managed to portray both how determined the Amis had been and how tight the bonds of friendship that bound them were. Other things, though…

_I wasn't out to destroy anything—not even the aristocracy. We did learn from the past, Eric._ Enjolras' voice is gentle. The man seems at ease with the musical, less bothered by it and the attempt to capture his character than Eric is. _We wanted to create a world where all men had opportunity. We wanted to be a rallying point, and we are. Even if they've simplified and streamlined the message so that large swaths of it could be misinterpreted, they're at least still telling it. The Amis haven't been forgotten. And they're not glossing over the fact that the war isn't over, that this fight for equality and opportunity hasn't been won. The finale is a call for men to stand together and change things. It's a call to fight for and love all your brothers—siblings, I suppose I should say now._

_Yes. The overarching themes—love, redemption, opportunity, sacrifice—are certainly something I can appreciate. There is a great deal of merit in the story, even told like this._ Smiling, Eric allows his eyes to close for a moment, focusing on Enjolras. _You're much calmer when we're not in the dreams. It's nice to talk to you like this._

_It's nice to not have something torturing me. I think we're both much calmer like this._ Enjolras' voice is quiet contemplation, barely accented. _I will be fierce and uncompromising, Eric, but it's when I have to be. It's when it's _necessary_. Never let the monster convince you otherwise. And never forget that you can be, too. Never let it make you _afraid_ of having to be._

_I haven't had to be. Not yet. Not like you did._ He knows the potential's there, though. He's been preparing all his life for a fight—a fight that will hopefully be fought with words, with rallies, with peaceful protest, but if it ever comes to more… he will do what is needed to help his country, his people, his friends. Whatever is needed. _But you're right. I could be. If it's what's needed, the type of leader they wanted, I could be._

"It's wrong."

Grant's voice is a quiet whimper, but Eric still opens his eyes and turns around.

Grant's sitting on the couch next to Barry, curled in the corner. He's bent almost double, his eyes fixed on the floor, a bitter, almost frightened grimace on his face. "They got my death all wrong."

Barry's hand reaches out, pats Grant's shoulder awkwardly. "At least you _got_—"

"No." The negation is in French, and Grantaire surges to his feet, shaking his head fiercely. "No, they can't _do_ that! They can't take that away! They can't ignore you, Bahorel, and give _me_ such a part and then… and then… they can't. Enjolras, they _can't_."

Enjolras asks permission before sliding forward, and Eric doesn't fight him. He still doesn't like it, the sensation of someone else using his body while he's a silent captive, but he knows that Enjolras likes it about as much as he does. If Enjolras can give him most of the day, he can give Enjolras the time needed to help his friends. "Grantaire, it's all right."

"No, it's not!" Grantaire takes a half-step toward Enjolras, his eyes wide and wild. "They do me justice, oh, but they do my drunken cynical self justice, but they forget the most important part! _I died with you!_ I finally was worthy… I finally… why would they take that away? Why would they give me so much time, time they could give to those who routinely stood with you, if they were going to _take away_ the part that makes me worth something?"

"To be fair…" Courfeyrac's voice cuts in. "We all died within about thirty seconds of each other in this, so you _did_ die with him. Reaching for him, even."

"Reaching…" Grantaire hesitates, eyes flicking from Courfeyrac to the television before returning once more to Enjolras. "Reaching for you… I suppose… that's appropriate."

"You stood with me." Standing and maneuvering his way among the sea of legs and bodies, Enjolras takes Grantaire's hand in his and presses him back down to his place on the couch. "Nothing will change that. No theatre act, no shadow-monster, nothing will change that. There are many things that they changed for this opera, and it's certainly fascinating to watch and to consider, but it changes nothing of what happened between us at the barricade. It changes nothing of who we are and what we fought for."

"The complicated history would make it difficult to give the proper scale and scope to our fight unless another three hours or so were added to the tale." Combeferre smiles. "And while _I_ would gladly watch such a story, I'm not sure that the general populace would be as intrigued. This… worked well enough."

"The book has a lot more." Mark speaks in English, his face red, from shame or embarrassment or frustration Enjolras can't tell. "A lot more about you guys, a lot more about the history… a lot more about everything. Including some things I really didn't need, like a detailed description of the battle of Waterloo and the history of the Paris sewer system. You guys might find the book more to your liking. I'm sorry if you didn't like this. I just thought… I don't know. I'm sorry."

Mark's head drops forward, his right hand rising to cover his eyes, and his shoulders heave once in what might be a sob or might just be a shuddering shiver. Erin raises her head, looking over at Mark, lips pressed so tightly together they're white. She doesn't move to touch him, though.

"I never said I didn't like it, Mark." It's Cori who finally breaks the stillness and the silence, his arm sliding across Mark's shoulders. "I like it just fine! It tells a very different story than the one that Courfeyrac lived through, you know—he never knew anything about Valjean. A very sad, very fascinating, very hopeful story, and I certainly don't regret watching it! What they left out of our section is more than made up for by finding out about the tales of others."

"Agreed." Jona has his arm around Maria, and Enjolras notices for the first time that the woman's eyes are red and her cheeks wet. "If the rest of this is half as true as our part—and I suspect it is, from the way you talk about things—then our sharpshooter was a fascinating man. I don't know whether to be upset or not about his letting the spy go, though I suppose it didn't make much difference in the end."

Mark's hand falls to his side, and he straightens slightly, though his eyes keep their downward cast. "It made a difference to Marius. He didn't just let Valjean go, Javert helped Valjean get Marius back to his family. He helped save his life."

"It's probably silly to say this two hundred years later…" Bossuet straightens on the couch. "But I'm glad that you survived, Marius. As ready as I was for all of us to die… it's good to know that you survived and had a happy life."

Mark hesitates a long moment before nodding. When he speaks, it's in English still. "Thanks, Laigle. That means a lot."

_There's something wrong with him._ Eric makes the quiet observation. _There's something wrong with the way he's interacting with Marius._

Enjolras turns his gaze to Courfeyrac—to Cori—it's impossible to tell which with the two of them. They seem to slide back and forth, switch off and on with ease, not even an accent always present to distinguish the two.

Cori gives him a slight smile, a raised eyebrow, mouths something that might be _later_, and tightens his hold around Mark's shoulders within the span of a second. Taking that to mean that Courfeyrac has things under control, Enjolras turns to the rest of the group. Maria watches him closely from her place half-sitting in Jona's lap, a frustrated, helpless attention, and Enjolras draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

_You can keep going._ Eric makes the offer without hesitancy, though he relishes the thought of regaining control. _Use English, so she can understand, but talk with them. Especially if it's Marius who's having trouble, hearing you might help._

Groping tentatively for the language that he needs, trying not to infringe too strongly on anything else of Eric's, Enjolras continues. "We're all happy to know that you lived, Marius—and to be alive now, to be in this world again. Watching this makes me realize exactly how much can be going on that we're not aware of, how many stories must be woven together to create the final picture. It also makes me wonder who else has been called here. There were others at the barricade—others who died. Is Gavroche somewhere? Is Mabeuf? Are we missing more than Jehan?"

Con raises his head, expression becoming pensive again. "You said the shadow was waiting for you to find the last one, though."

"It said as much." Shrugging, feeling the unfamiliar pull of Eric's clothes against his body, Enjolras kneels again at Combeferre's side. Con's. "I try to pay very close attention to what it says, and it definitely said that it was waiting for the last one. But Eponine wasn't a member of the Amis. She was associated with Marius, but not with us. Unless it knows how many are going to join the Independents…"

"It said…." Erin licks her lips, and her voice is thick, hard to understand until she clears her throat. "It said that its finding me was Mark's fault. It said that it had forgotten about me, and that I could blame him for anything it did to me."

Mark's face pales, and he reaches out to touch Erin's arm.

She pulls away from him, her eyes once more downcast, her face unreadable.

Enjolras frowns, watching them, but he doesn't know what the problem is and he doesn't know what he could do to fix it. If Courfeyrac thinks he has an idea, he'll wait for Courfeyrac to act. "When was this? When did it say this?"

"A few days ago. When we went out and got pizza. Thursday evening."

"Before it told me what it did, then." Frowning, Enjolras turns back to Combeferre.

Fist in front of his mouth, Con hesitates for a moment before shaking his head. "I don't know. We _can't_ know. All we can do is keep a look-out for anyone else who might have been there. For Gavroche or Mabeuf or Valjean or Javert, since they were at the barricade."

"For Cosette." Mark swallows hard. "If Marius is here, Cosette… might be."

Enjolras nods. "She might be."

"Though Gavroche…" Placing a tentative hand on Erin's shoulder, Mark bites hard on his lip for a moment. "He might be Gary, Erin. Gavroche was Eponine's brother."

"_No._" Shaking her head, Erin rounds on Mark, teeth bared, fury in her eyes. "Don't you say things like that! 'e's the best thing 'bou' m' fam'ly! No soul-eatin' _demon's_ goin' t' tahget him, and don't you _dare_ give it any ideas!"

"All right. I'm sorry. Maybe I'm wrong." Mark pulls his hand back as though his palm has been burned. "I just… thought maybe you should talk to him."

"You should." Enjolras meets the woman's glare evenly, waiting for her anger and fear to vent itself against him. It does, eventually, though he can see her shoulders shaking as it fades. "Mark has nothing to do with who it does or doesn't target. It's looking for victims. It knows about us, for some reason. It may know about Gary if he is Gavroche. And if he is, the best thing we can to protect him is give him information."

"I…" Erin bites down hard on her lip. "I don' know where 'e is. He runs, sometimes, 'specially when it's warm. Safer, he says. I _can't_ warn him, not 'til he comes home again."

Finny breaks in. "There's no way you can get word to him that you'd like to see him? No friends or… acquaintances that you can use to get word to him that you need to talk to him?"

Turning to Finny, Erin hesitates a moment before nodding reluctantly. "Yeah. There are… some people. I'll do that."

Eric asks, quietly, for control back, and Enjolras surrenders. Flexing his fingers, resisting the urge to shiver, Eric catches Erin's eye again. "And if he needs some place to stay, there are plenty of us that you could ask."

"He does all right. He's smart. But I'll tell him you offered, once I find him." Curling up around her bruised chest again, Erin sighs. "Though I hope you're wrong. I hope he isn't Gavroche. I hope he's safe."

"We all do." Maria's hand slides across Erin's shoulders, and Erin slowly, half-reluctantly, leans into the embrace. "We'd very much like all of us to be safe, I think."

"And we will be." Settling down next to Con again, Eric scans the group. Mark, Grant and Erin are the most visibly upset, but there's a tension thrumming under the surface that hadn't been there before they started watching the musical.

It's late. They should head home, head to bed, because they have things to do in the morning.

It doesn't matter.

He's not letting them leave when they're upset.

Turning to Cori, he raises both eyebrows in silent question.

Bounding to his feet, Cori claps his hands together, drawing all eyes to him. "That's enough of death and revolutions for one night, I think. How about we round out the evening with a little friendly riff-tracking of old social propaganda films?"

The tension doesn't go away immediately—Eric's not sure that it ever goes away entirely—but it does fade. In the mixture of good humor and shared ideals, of mocking opinions that are so out of date even the most sheltered teenagers know they're foolish, the tension slowly drains. When finally the others leave, they're mostly smiling, laughing, touching arms and shoulders with the familiar ease that they usually have. And if there's a bit more hugging, a bit more touching, a bite more vocal affirmation of bonds than there usually is… who could blame them?

Closing the door behind Con, giving Con's shoulder one final squeeze in farewell, Eric turns toward the bedroom with a grim determination.

He hopes the shadow comes for him tonight.

He and Enjolras are more than ready for another round.

XXX

Grant stands in the bedroom doorway by the light switch, staring between where Eric's stretched out on his bed under the sheet and Grant's own untouched bed.

He should just turn out the light and go to sleep. It's been a long day. Watching the musical was amazing and exhausting. Trying to deal any more with his… relationship with Eric isn't really something he's up for right now.

_He said it made them safer._ Grantaire's voice is a gruff, determined whisper in his mind, repeating the thoughts that have kept Grant glued in place for the last half minute. _He said they'll wake us up earlier moving than they would screaming. If that's true, if it would make him safer, then he should stay with us._

"Eric." Grant manages to squeak out the name, though he can feel his face flush bright red as Eric looks toward him. "My bed—I mean, _the_ bed—I mean… weren't you going to sleep with us again?"

He is an idiot.

That's the only possible reason that those words have managed to leave his mouth in that order.

Eric doesn't laugh. He doesn't even smile. He just props himself up on his elbow and studies Grant with a serious, considering expression. "I made you uncomfortable this morning. I didn't want to do it again."

"You said… you said it might make you safer." Grant manages to meet Eric's blue, blue eyes for a few seconds. "If that's true, if it'll make you safer, I don't care how uncomfortable it would make me. Plus it was more the not knowing what was going on that made me uncomfortable. Waking up severely hung over can be very disorienting."

"I'm sure it can be." Eric sits up entirely, the sheet falling off his chest. Unfortunately—no, _fortunately_ he's in a T-shirt that's a size too big for him, meaning no more skin is actually revealed. "I don't want to cause extra stress for you, though. If things go terribly wrong, I'm sure we'll wake you by screaming again."

"Do you think Erin screamed?" Grant blurts out the question, his hand toying with the light switch again. "Do you think she was screaming, and no one in her house even cared enough to…?"

"I don't know." Eric shrugs. "It's certainly possible. There's… a lot that Erin doesn't like to talk about or tell us about her life outside the Independents. Either she's someone who doesn't scream when she's in pain, and that could be due to personality or because she's learned not to… or, as you said, she was screaming and no one cared enough to respond."

"It made you scream." Grant's voice drops to a whisper as his eyes drop to the ground. He never wants to hear Eric scream like that again.

"I… don't know if what I felt then was similar to what she felt. If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say yes. It was… a breaking of something central to me. Or an almost breaking, I suppose, since we still seem to be in one piece." Eric's right hand presses briefly against his chest before he shrugs. "I don't know why it happened. I don't know why there's a wound in our soul, if the shadow did it or something else, but we did better at handling it last night. Hopefully we'll do even better tonight."

"Wait." Grant feels as though his stomach's dropped through the floor. "What do you mean, a wound in your soul? Do you mean the scratches, or…?"

"Ah. I forgot. It was one of the things that came up last evening, at the meeting you missed."

"Right." Drawing a deep breath, Grant tries to smile. Of course it was at the meeting he missed. Why had he done what he did? Why did he always manage to fuck things up?

Eric shrugs again, as though the monster managing to hurt his _soul_ doesn't matter, as though it's just another scratch to write off. "Con and I talked about it. We both think that waiting to see what happens is the best course."

"There's no way to… to try to fix it?" He knows the words are foolish even as he says them. He can't help it, though. If Eric's hurt, he wants it _fixed_, he wants to _do_ something, especially if the monster's going to keep targeting him. "No soul-bandage or… or… something?"

"We don't even know how you _get_ soul wounds, aside from the shadow, so it's asking a bit much to want us to fix them." Eric stands, smiling as he does. "Grant, it's not that big a deal. I'm just as fine now as I was before you knew."

And maybe it isn't that big a deal. Eric made it through last night with only scratches, when Erin came out of it much worse for wear.

It still feels wrong. It's so utterly, terribly wrong that Eric's been here, _right here_, in the same room with him, and he hasn't been able to do anything to help him. Eric's been attacked, had his soul injured multiple times… and Grant's been useless.

Shouldn't he at least be a good distraction? Shouldn't he be another target the shadow can go for, to give Eric a rest?

Or maybe the shadow knows that there's no need to worry about him, that it can have him anytime it wants.

"Grant?" Eric's hand is tentative on his shoulder.

"I wish… I want it to come after me, instead." Rubbing fiercely at his eyes, ignoring the burn in them, he forces a gruff laugh. "It's silly, huh? You actually managed to attack it last night, but I'd still much prefer it come after me than go after you."

"It's not silly. It's kind." Eric's eyes drop to the ground, though his slight smile stays in place. "And I understand it. Knowing what it is, knowing that when it's coming after me it's at least not after you or one of the others… I'd prefer it target Enjolras and I for the rest of eternity if it meant the rest of you were safe."

Grant swallows, hard, knowing the words are true. "I'd prefer you kill it."

"Yes. I would, too." Eric's smile grows for a moment before his expression turns completely serious. "I'm fine, Grant. I swear."

Raising his head to meet Eric's eyes, Grant forces a smile. "I believe you. Always."

"You can't have faith in causes, but you can have such faith in people." Eric hesitates just for a moment, those deep blue eyes just slightly unfocused. "I'll always strive to be worthy of that faith."

"You don't have to _try_ to be worthy." Giving Eric's shoulder a slight shove, Grant finds that the smile on his face is genuine. "You just _are_. It's a part of you being you."

"Then I guess I'll just keep being me." Eric's smile is genuine and easy now, just a slight upturn of the corners of his mouth. "We should be heading to bed, though. We can't fight our dream-battles until we're asleep."

"Right." Grant's not sure he's going to be doing much fighting, period… though maybe, if he can manage to harness the rage and dismay he feels at this thing for what it's done to Eric, he might stand a chance of doing more than crying in the dream. "And you're going to sleep with me. _Next_ to me. You're going to sleep next to me?"

The slight smile reappears on Eric's face as he nods. "My bed or yours?"

"Mine." That one's easy, at least. He's not worthy of being in Eric's bed. Grant's just glad he actually made himself wash the sheets on his bed, though the summer heat makes it hard to skip laundry days.

Eric pushes Grant toward Grant's bed. Grabbing the sheet off his own bed again, Eric waits for Grant to be settled against the wall before flipping off the light and settling down on the bed next to Grant.

Eric doesn't seem to worry all that much about his positioning, simply settling down as though this were any other night, but he doesn't touch Grant at all. He doesn't come close to touching him, even, stretched out neatly on his side of the bed, and Grant lets out a long, slow breath.

He thinks at first he won't be able to sleep. He thinks he'll be too excited, too nervous, too focused on Eric's lithe body so close to his, Eric's absurd offer from the morning still ringing in his head.

Then he finds his breathing matching up with Eric's, a slow, steady rhythm, and before he's even aware of what's happening he drifts off to sleep.

XXX

"Hey, Cori. Can I talk to you about something?" Mark tries and fails to keep his face from heating with fear and trepidation as Cori turns to him.

Cori's on the floor, working on arranging the second air mattress that they've managed to cram into Mark's small bedroom, but he sits back and raises his eyes to where Mark's perched on the edge of his bed. The sound of the shower running can be heard through the wall. "Sure. Anything."

"Do you think… was I… _am_ I…" It's hard to get the proper wording, the one that won't sound awful, so he finally just spits out one of the phrases that works. "Am I a terrible person?"

"No." The smile that had been on Cori's face vanishes, and he moves to sitting at Mark's side in the blink of an eye. His hand falls lightly on Mark's knee. "Hell no, Mark. You're one of my friends. What's brought this on? Did the shadow say something…?"

"It didn't have to. There are lots of other people willing to do it." Mark shivers despite the warmth of the summer night, wrapping his arms around his chest. "I shouldn't have had us watch the musical. I'm sorry. I didn't think about… about how different it would be for you guys, about how painful it might be…"

"From what I saw it wasn't that painful for most of us. It was more… bemusing, seeing how they interpreted us, seeing what lines they gave us… seeing how much bigger the story is. Our sharpshooter volunteer was actually an escaped convict galley slave who took care of an orphan girl and saved the spy's life rather than executing him." Cori bares his teeth in an expression that's more grimace than grin. "It's a lot to try to process. Especially because, like Con said, they managed to make our part both more universal and somehow much… smaller and stripped of context. But I did like seeing the musical. I like musicals, and I got some good lines. And I bet all the girls cry when the barricade falls at live performances."

Mark smiles despite himself, despite the fact that this is a tangent he hadn't meant to get into. He had felt awful, though, watching the way Grant seemed to deflate throughout the musical, watching Eric's mouth twitch down at the edges as he studied Enjolras, listening to Barry's complaints… watching Erin huddle into herself and away from him as Eponine sang her parts. He'd been so _happy_ to have other people—other _guys_—to share the story with, but like everything else over the last few days it didn't turn out quite the way he wanted it to. "You don't even _like _girls, Cori."

"That is a blatant falsehood. There are many women that I am very fond of. I'm not sexually interested in them, true, but since when has sexual interest decided what you can and cannot turn into a euphemism?" Cori draws a deep breath and lets it out in a long, slow sigh. "I could get into the fact that I'm sure there are many guys who are also emotionally destroyed by an hour of everyone dying but don't feel comfortable expressing pain and thus can't cry in a theatre. Or I could say that Courfeyrac would enjoy comforting those of a female persuasion. Or I could shut up before I make you turn any redder, though this is an interesting experiment."

"Cori, you're…" Mark buries his face in his hands, smiling despite himself. "You're impossible. But it wasn't the musical that I was trying to get at—or at least not only my ineptitude in suggesting we watch it when we're trying not to be emotionally compromised. It's… it's Erin. And Eponine. And Marius."

Cori nods, expression somber again.

"I…" Mark shrugs, hugging himself tighter. "I don't know what to do about any of them."

"What do you want to do?" Cori crosses his legs underneath him, tilting his head to the side, his curly hair spilling every which way. "And maybe we should narrow it down to one of your people-problems at a time."

"I don't know which to talk about first." Talking to the floor is easier than talking to Cori's face, and Mark forces his voice to be above a whisper so he doesn't have to repeat himself. Saying any of this once is hard enough, but he doesn't want to _not_ say something and have everything fall apart. He will learn from the past. "They're… kind of interconnected."

"Well…" Cori pauses, and Mark glances up at him. Finally Cori shrugs. "Why don't we start with Erin, since she's in the shower and that gives us a time limit on when we should stop talking about her."

"All right. Erin." Swallowing hard, Mark allows his eyes to return to the floor. "I think that she likes me. Romantically. Possibly."

"Yes." Cori's tone is mildly entertained, but at least he doesn't laugh. "I think she might be a little smitten with you."

"And Eponine was in love with Marius." Rubbing at his temples, Mark falls back on the bed. Studying the ceiling is at least as good as studying the floor. "She was a little bit crazier about it, and I—he—didn't even notice, but… well…"

"She sang you a love song. Or two." Cori shrugs, staying perched on the edge of the bed. "I was wondering if you'd noticed. I thought it would be hard not to, but people are infinitely capable of missing cues that I think are glaring neon lights."

"I would have to be deaf and blind to miss Eponine's attachment to Marius in the musical—and it's just as clear in the book… in Marius' memories. He didn't even know what he was doing, Cori. He didn't _mean_ to hurt her. He just… Cosette." Shrugging, Mark closes his eyes and allows the waves of emotion that always accompany that name to wash through him.

Devotion.

Joy.

Completion.

Cosette was everything to Marius. Her absence was the reason he joined the revolution, hope for her presence the reason he survived his injuries, her actual presence at his side the reason he kept going despite… _everything_. As ridiculous a love story as it might have been, it worked for them.

And now she's gone again.

Now he's been thrust back into his youth, his clearest memories suddenly those of blood and death, of despair and hopelessness, and Cosette has been taken from him once more.

Mark presses both hands to his eyes, drawing shaky breaths that are half-sob as his thoughts finally disentangle from Marius' blurred, dreamy wandering.

He could handle this, maybe, if Marius would actually talk to him, if Marius were actually awake and conscious and helping him, but Marius seems content to just… sleep when not being tormented in the dreams, a source of emotion and memory fragments at inopportune moments.

"Mark?" Cori's hand is a barely-felt pressure on Mark's shoulder. "Hey, it's all right."

"No. No, it's not." Moving his hands away from his eyes, Mark blinks blurrily at Cori. "I like Erin. As a friend, I think she's fascinating and entertaining and I like spending time with her. But I don't know if I love her. I don't know if I'd want to date her. Especially because… what happens if I try something with her and then Cosette shows up? What do I do then?"

Cori leans back, an expression of disappointment flitting across his face for a moment. "Ah. That's what this is about. There's no guarantee that we'll find Cosette this time around, you know. Even if we do find her, she might not be interested in you. I mean, just look at me."

For a long moment Mark just stares at Cori. It hadn't occurred to him that Cosette might not be interested in him—might be a lesbian, even. It's… just not something that his mind can process.

"Is Marius pressuring you to find Cosette?" There's gentle compassion in Cori's voice again. "Is that what's happening?"

"No." Shaking his head, Mark forces his exhausted body back into a sitting position. "I could at least be angry at him if he were. He's just… quiet. He's _there_. He's been there since Eric made us all look at them, and I can borrow from him enough to speak and understand French, but he's… sleeping, I suppose. Uninterested. Frightened."

"Frightened?" Cori's eyebrows draw together, and he slips from English to French, from Cori to Courfeyrac without missing a beat. "Can I talk with him, Mark? Will he speak with an old friend?"

No.

He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to see Courfeyrac, alive, eager, energetic, compassionate, all that he was until the moment of his death.

He doesn't want to remember. He doesn't want to face the crystal-clarity of the barricade, the horror that he had only fragmented memories of in life suddenly revealed in all its terrible glory.

He can't face it, not alone, not without Cosette, not with the rest of his life—his adult life, his maturity, his _humanity_, learned and honed on the barricade and in the debacles that followed—dancing tantalizingly out of reach, ghost-echoes of what might have been that he can't bring into focus.

"Courfeyrac." Marius doesn't have a choice. Mark stubbornly refuses to speak, pushes him forward, keeps him from returning to his semi-peaceful slumber. "Please, just leave me be."

"As you're leaving Mark be?" Courfeyrac crosses his arms over his chest, eyebrows lifted, gentle censure in his voice. "This is your problem as much as Mark's, Marius. It isn't fair to him to deprive him of your input."

"I can't do this again, Courfeyrac." Swallowing hard, digging the fingernails of his right hand into his left arm, Marius keeps himself from crying. "You _died_. All of you died. I was the only one left. I went to the barricade to die, and I'm the only one who walked away! Why?"

"You joined us to die?" Courfeyrac's voice is a pained whisper. "Why would you… did you really think our chances were that poor?"

"No. Yes. I don't know. I wasn't thinking very well then." Rubbing between his eyes, Marius tries hard not to let the memories overwhelm him. "I had just found out that Cosette was leaving, was going to be ripped away from me, and my grandfather had forbidden me from marrying her. I didn't know what else to do. Eponine sent me to the barricades thinking that we'd both die there. I… might not have cared if I did."

"_Never_ say something like that." Courfeyrac's hand is suddenly on Marius' chin, holding his head up, grip and expression firm and fierce. "Never _think_ something like that. I was glad to see you at the barricade, Marius. You saved my life. You—"

"For how long? For a day? You still died! _You all still died!_" Courfeyrac can't possibly understand. He never had to live through the horror of being the last one left. He never went to send out wedding invitations and found his hand pausing, his address book empty, because every man he would want at his side had died for a cause Marius never properly understood. He never woke up next to the love of his life drenched in sweat, his chest and his head aching as old scars screamed like new, the phantom echoes of cries he can't properly remember when awake echoing in his head.

He can remember them now, though. He can't forget them now. They have become his truth, his existence, brighter and clearer than anything that came before, than anything that came after.

He's crying. He doesn't know when it started. He just knows that there are tears running down his face, that his breaths are broken sobs, and that Courfeyrac is holding him tightly.

"Hush, my friend. Hush, Marius. I'm sorry. I didn't think. I didn't consider how much it must have hurt you. But I am very grateful for the extra day that you gave me. I never regretted dying, and there is nothing in this world or any other that could make me regret how I lived, either." Courfeyrac's hands smooth sweat-streaked locks of hair away from Marius' face. "And I don't want you to regret it, either. I died as I lived—happy and proud and free. I am sorry if my death hurt you, but I am not sorry that I gave my life for something I believed in. So don't you be sorry, either."

Sniffling, trying to recover what shreds of his dignity he can, Marius nods. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just… hard. I was ill, after the barricades, for a long time. Months. I missed all of your funerals. When I finally recovered, I didn't remember the barricades clearly. Too much trauma to my head, the doctors said. I just had flashes, fragments… nightmares. I mourned you, though. I mourned all of the Amis, because I remembered enough to know how amazingly bright you had been that day, but I missed you most of all. You had been my closest friend."

"You were quite dear to me, as well." Courfeyrac's hands squeeze Marius' shoulders, and Marius is glad to have the contact. "But you mustn't get so lost in fears and memories of our deaths. We're alive now, all of us, together again, in a world full of wonders! Surely you want to be awake to see it."

"It's… hard to set it aside. I survived because of Cosette. If she hadn't been there… if I had to go through it all without her… I wouldn't have. I couldn't have. I would have put a bullet in my head and joined the rest of you." The words are a quiet whisper, and he closes his eyes, waiting for Courfeyrac to yell at him again.

"Ah, Marius…" Courfeyrac pulls him into a tight embrace instead, the other man's voice quiet and rough with emotion. "It hurts to hear you say things like that. I am glad that you lived. I am glad that you were happy. Surely a lifetime's worth of joys can help to offset the pain, at least a bit."

"Perhaps. It's hard to remember, though." Scrubbing his face with the heel of his hand, Marius disentangles himself from Courfeyrac's hold. "The barricades are clear—clearer than they ever were during my life. But everything that followed… it's like a dream, Courfeyrac. It's hard to hold it in my mind properly. I married Cosette. I became a lawyer. I had children, I think… two boys and a girl. The girl we named for Cosette's mother, the boys… the first after you, the second after Valjean. I loved them. I know I did, so why is it so hard to remember their lives? My life?"

"Why indeed." Courfeyrac's lips press together, his expression grim and somber. "How much is sharp and clear to you? Is it just the barricade?"

"No. The barricade is clearest, but the months surrounding it are fairly clear, too. It's when I try to remember farther out… my wedding, Valjean's death, I can remember those if I try, but beyond that… my memories scatter."

"Always back to the barricade. Always back to those days…" Courfeyrac shakes his head. "I'll ask Combeferre if this new bit of information gives him any ideas. Having a cause for the problem will do little to help you, though. What can we do, Marius? How can we help you?"

"I don't know." Shrugging helplessly, Marius studies his hands. Mark's hands. So similar, so familiar, and yet not his. So _young_, so untested, and though they are close to the right age for the barricades something in him still balks at it. "I'm sorry if I've made this more difficult than it had to be. I just don't know what to do."

"Focus on what's here." Courfeyrac's hand pats his shoulder. "Focus on what good there was in your last life. You lived. You married your beloved Cosette. You were happy, and that makes me quite happy. And remember that even though I died, even though we died, none of us regretted it. We knew what we fought and died for. And now we're _here_, Marius. There's no guarantee we're going to die this time. It's rather uncommon for students to be gunned down in this country, in this time. Bruised a bit, certainly, but shooting and killing us would be very bad publicity for the government. Life has begun anew, and even if the shadows of the past chase us, they cannot possibly compare to the wonder and glory of all of us together in this world!"

Marius finds himself smiling despite himself. It's impossible not to smile with Courfeyrac when he talks like this, so open, so happy, so eager to share his joy with others. "I'm glad to be here with all of you. I know—he knows—things are unlikely to go quite so badly this time. And I feel better, having talked about all this with you."

"That's why you should have talked with me sooner—with any of us. With Mark, even." Courfeyrac punches him lightly in the shoulder. "If you can't talk to yourself, who can you talk to?"

"Myself is currently considering dating a woman who tried to engage me in a double-suicide attempt without discussing it with me first." It's an unfair thing to say, perhaps, but he doesn't like the idea of being romantically involved with anyone but Cosette. "He knows my story quite thoroughly from his… we don't have a word for what he does, so I'll borrow his. _Fanboying._ I'm not sure he and I have very much to talk about."

"You could talk about how to survive. As for Erin… Mark has a right to date anyone that he wishes to. Especially since, as I've said, we may not find Cosette." Courfeyrac breaks into a grin. "And I very much doubt Erin is going to attempt to kill you. She seems like a nice girl. If she does attempt to kill you, I'll be here to protect you."

"Who saved whose life again?" Smiling more truly now, Marius gives Courfeyrac's shoulder a gentle shove. "It's good to be sleeping with you again, Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac's eyes flicker, his grin faltering, a moment of hesitancy and doubt, but it swiftly passes. "It's good to be under the same roof again, yes."

Mark reaches out tentatively, striving for control of their body, and Marius gladly surrenders it. He doesn't remember living being quite so exhausting before he died.

Running his hands through his hair, drawing and releasing a long, slow breath, Mark reacquaints himself with his body. It's strange, having Marius in control of his movements, his speech, but he thinks it's actually preferable to having Marius sleeping in the back of his mind.

_I'm sorry._ There's honest contrition in Marius' voice. _I didn't think about how this would be for you, Mark. If you need me, I'm here._

_Same. If you need me in the dreams, I'm here._ Here for Marius, for the shy, strange, out-of-his-depth protagonist of a story he's loved for over a decade, and Mark still finds it almost impossible to process. _If you want, I can wait to talk with Erin about anything. I still don't know what I want, after all. Though I don't know if I really want to find Cosette. If connecting with people from back then is what draws the shadow to them…_

_Never._ Marius' rage is a sudden, overwhelming fire. _I will never let it near her._

Drawing a shaky breath, waiting for the anger to fade and his hands to cease trembling, Mark nods. _We'll try to protect her. Just like we'll try to protect Erin._

_She… had a very hard life. Eponine did._ Marius' voice is hesitant, uncertain, as he picks the details of her story from Mark's memories of the story and research into the time period. _I really didn't notice, Mark. If I had noticed, I would have tried to do something. I couldn't love her, but I wouldn't intentionally have hurt her._

_There's more than one kind of love, as Eric keeps saying. She might never have been Cosette to you, but she could have been a friend._ Studying his hands, Mark makes an experimental fist. _She_ is_ my friend. Whether I find Cosette or someone else to love or decide to date her, she is my friend._

_Then we will strive to protect her, as friends should._ There's an overlay of gallantry, of knighthood and chivalry to Marius' words that Mark's not sure Erin would appreciate.

That's all right, though. At least Marius is talking to him, and accepting that there are other things in this life that matter to him besides Cosette.

And Mark intends to keep it that way. Even if he finds Cosette, he isn't going to allow the overwhelming feelings that she stirred in Marius to swamp his mind. He isn't going to forget his friends.

"You're looking better." Cori stands and stretches, his smile just slightly melancholic. "It's good to see."

"It's good to feel. Thank you." Mark hesitates, watching as Cori begins arranging sheets and bedding again. "Did anything I say… bother you? You seem… sad now."

"No. I'm fine. I'm sure it's nothing you'd want to hear about." Shrugging, Cori keeps his eyes focused on his work, his head turned away from Mark.

He's tempted to just let it go at that. Marius would have. If Cori doesn't want to say, then it isn't his business. Marius also ended up on a barricade fighting for his life because he wasn't very good at talking to people. "I can listen. It can't be any worse than some of the things I just told you. I mean, I couldn't possibly hold thoughts of you and suicide in the same vicinity."

"It would take a great deal to push me to that point." Cori finally stills, blowing a curl of hair away from his face. "If you really want to know, I'm slightly disappointed because I'd had the fleeting thought you might be interested in me given how close you've been staying to me all evening. I know it's because you've been worried and frightened and you wanted someone to talk to. That's fine. I accept that. I'm glad I could be here to help you work things out. But added on top of everything else… yes, I'm feeling slightly let down now."

"Interested… in me… romantically?" His voice comes out slightly higher and more panicked than he'd intended.

"You're handsome. You're my friend. You know about… all the ghosts and shadow-monster issues. It might have been interesting. It might have been a stupid idea, given everything else. But you are very clearly interested in keeping things on the heterosexual side, and I'm fine with that. Erin's a nice woman; I'm sure if we find her Cosette will be great, from the way you—Marius—talked about her; and if you find someone else, I'll be just as happy for you and them." Cori shrugs, offering a self-deprecating smile. "I'm just a little… lonely right now. My last boyfriend broke up with me over the whole waking-up-screaming gig. There isn't really time to go looking for a new one, and even if I did… there's a dead guy in my head now. A dead straight guy, or at least mostly straight, who is taking my sexuality better than I would have dreamed possible because he's pretty awesome, but… hard to strike up any romance when you're having to keep something like that hidden. Plus the possibility now of the shadow being contagious… bad timing all around."

Mark squeezes his eyes shut, breathing in through his nose and holding his breath. A part of him wants to panic, to insist that Cori shift to the further air mattress or go home, to distance himself as far as he can from being associated with being gay. It's an old fear, one his schoolmates taught and his family fostered with talk of scandals and depravity.

But it wouldn't be right. This is Cori. He's known Cori's gay literally since he met the man, and Cori's never been anything but friendly with him. Never pressured him to do anything, never done more than hug him as Cori hugs all his friends, and he _likes_ being hugged by Cori.

He likes Cori, even if he's not going to even consider sleeping with him. Handling one real and one hypothetical girlfriend is already giving him enough problems.

Letting out his breath in a sharp rush, Mark opens his eyes and smiles at his friend. "Yeah. This whole dead-people thing has made romance a lot more complicated than it had been before. And I already thought it was pretty complicated."

Cori grins, gratitude and surprise showing in his face, and then laughs. It's a strained, half-gasping laugh, but there's good humor in it anyway. "Yeah. Our lives have definitely gotten really complicated."

A tentative knock on the doorframe causes both of them to jump. It's only Erin, though, in loose-fitting pajamas, her hair dry. "Am I breaking up a party, or…?"

"Nope." Jumping to his feet, Cori gestures toward the far air mattress. "Your bed, if you care to accept it. You can also take the middle one, if you want, I have no preference. I'm going to go steal the bathroom for a few minutes."

Erin slides into the room enough for Cori to brush past her, chewing gently on her bottom lip. Eventually her eyes slide up to meet Mark's. "I think… I owe you an apology. For yellin' at you. 'S not your fault any of this is happening."

"Accepted." Mark smiles warmly at the woman, shifting to a cross-legged position on his bed. "We've all been under a lot of stress. I'd be a fool to hold it against you."

"Yeah, well, people can do foolish things." Erin's hands twine together in front of her.

The silence between them is uncomfortable, and Mark shifts again, wondering what he should say or do. What would Cori say? Cori would find something that she likes, something that will raise her spirits, and talk to her about that. Mark's eyes dart around the room, eventually coming to rest on his well-stuffed bookshelf. "I know you've still got Les Mis to read, but I'm guessing you might want to take a break from that. Would you be interested in borrowing any of my other books?"

Erin eyes the books hungrily and takes another step into the room. "Any of them?"

"Any of them." Grinning, Mark stands and moves to the shelf, trying to remember what he has in his apartment. "Do you like fiction or non-fiction more?"

"Anythin'. Thing. I like books." Erin follows him, stands uneasily at his side, her eyes fixed on the shelves. "You'll really just let me take any of them?"

"Sure. I might warn you about one or two, though. I don't always have the best taste in books. Sometimes I buy things that look interesting but are actually pretty terrible."

"Hard to imagine a terrible book." Erin finally smiles, her hand reaching out to stroke the spines of a handful of paperbacks.

"Oh, trust me, they're out there." Watching her fingers caress the paper, Mark debates reaching out to take her hand in his.

Marius watches, silent in the back of his head, nervous, uncertain, but awake and not planning on stopping him.

Deciding against making things more complicated at the moment, Mark pulls his worn copy of _The Silmarillion_ from the shelf. "This is an interesting one if you like fiction and mythology. It's Tolkien creating a mythology for his Lord of the Rings universe."

"I've seen those movies." Erin takes the book from his hand, her fingers brushing against his. "Is it any good?"

Mark nods. "If you don't mind the writing style, it's fascinating. It can get a bit dark—it's mythology, so there's a lot of awesome heroes who then die—but it's interesting. And it's short stories, for the most part, so it's a bit easier to pick up and put down than some books."

"You've read it?" Erin's fingers trace the creases in the binding.

Smiling sheepishly, Mark nods again. "A few times."

Erin hesitates before opening the book. "Read it with me?"

When Cori returns from the bathroom Erin and Mark are busy arguing over which group of elves were the most foolish—those who stopped, or those who kept going.

As they all settle down to sleep, Mark finds himself smiling, feeling more comfortable in his own skin than he has in days.

XXX

Enjolras doesn't have time to think. All he has time to do is act, to swing up into his chosen refuge and start aiming at the men seeking to swarm over the barricade.

That's the first mistake it makes. Trying to drown his reason in the madness and immediacy of battle can work—did work—but not when a terrible sense of déjà vu accompanies it, urging his mind to question all that he sees.

He doesn't stop fighting. His body is good at fighting, has been trained so that it's second nature, and he allows it to continue acting even as he reaches tentatively inward.

_I'm here, Enjolras._ Eric's voice is sharp and clear, there as soon as he reaches for it. _What did you want to do?_

He wants to kill the shadow.

In order to do that, he has to draw it out.

_Play its game._ Enjolras pauses as he slits a soldier's throat with a blade he doesn't remember acquiring. _In order to draw it out. Which means giving more of myself to this dream._

_Do it._ Eric's voice is fiery certainty. _I'm here. I won't let us get lost._

Turning all of his focus outward, Enjolras allows the fury of the battle to sweep over him. He allows himself to believe that the weapons in his hand are all that he has, that the men he kills are men rather than figments, that the screams from his lieutenants are really them and not a mockery made solely for his benefit.

It's the last that hurts most, a dull, aching void in his chest, and he finds himself stumbling, pressing a hand to an injury that isn't visible. Other injuries are, though, sharp, slim gouges across his chest that leak blood slowly onto his shirt.

The soldiers disarm him while he's distracted by the bleeding, binding his arms tightly in front of him.

_Not rea—_

_Not yet._ Silencing Eric's voice, pushing his awareness of the other man as far away as he can without hurting either of them, Enjolras glares steady fire at the men holding him.

They're rough. He takes at least four blows to the face, possibly five, his head's ringing too much for him to tell at that point. He has to breathe through his mouth because there's blood clogging his nose, but he continues to stare in defiance at the men holding him, silent, angry.

They drag him to his feet and walk him to where the others are bound. They don't force him to his knees. Instead one of the guards walks behind him, and white fire lances through his leg, drops him to the ground with a grunt of surprise and agony.

The bayonet is shoved with brutal force through the muscle just beneath his knee and into the packed earth of the torn-up street. Blood soaks through his clothing and turns the dirt he's kneeling in to a red, gritty mud within seconds.

(_Now?_)

_No_. His leg _hurts_, throbs and burns with each too-rapid beat of his heart, and it's hard to string thoughts together through the pounding of blood in his head. There is something he is waiting for, though, and it isn't here yet.

It isn't time yet.

Combeferre curses, in multiple languages, straining against his captors until they cuff him into silence. Bahorel and Courfeyrac are less articulate but no less fierce in their struggles. Feuilly sits quietly by Combeferre, but his eyes are steady and reassuring. Joly shouts medical orders that are ignored, are met with jeers and blows, but he doesn't lapse into silence until Bossuet nudges him with a foot. Jehan's lips move, quiet words that Enjolras can't hear, but the look of utter determination and faith on the poet's face means words aren't necessary.

Grantaire doesn't bother with words. He simply howls, an animal cry of pain that seems to grow and fade with the pain in Enjolras' leg, and doesn't stop howling until he's beaten into unconsciousness.

A hand buries itself in Enjolras' hair, yanks his head up and turns him so that his gaze scans slowly down the row of bound Amis.

"Choose who dies first."

The command rings heavy in the gunpowder-scented air.

Enjolras doesn't hesitate. "I will not."

The first shot is into Combeferre's shoulder; the second into Feuilly's leg. "If you don't choose, we'll simply torture them all and see who lasts the longest."

It's a mockery of a choice. It's asking him to rank and rate his friends, his allies, to say who should and should not live. He can't do it.

He _won't _do it.

His anger is a shield for a few moments. His fury and disgust with the situation keep the dull ache that the command had sparked in his chest from sharpening.

Then the soldiers begin slowly, methodically working their way down the line of Amis, injuring each of them in a different way. They spread Combeferre's hand flat on the ground, jam a bayonet through the fragile skin and bones, pin Combeferre to the ground as surely as they have Enjolras. They beat Bahorel with a pistol, slowly, methodically, until the man's face is a mask of blood and his nose an unrecognizable hunk of tissue. They run a blade down Courfeyrac's face, thin, fine, bleeding lines, and Courfeyrac closes his eyes but he doesn't cry.

They slit Feuilly's wrist, hold the injured arm out toward Enjolras, and a rain of blood spatters his face.

(_Enjolras!_)

Pain flares bright in his chest, lances behind his eyes, and he doesn't know where he is. He doesn't know _who_ he is, what language he's thinking in, only that he needs to make this stop. He needs to find a way to make it stop, to save them, to end this. Even if the only thing he could manage to do is kill them, offer them the solace of a quick death—

_Enjolras!_

Eric's voice is sharp and certain, drawing him back from the edge of the madness, and he follows it eagerly.

If this hasn't drawn the monster to him, nothing will.

The hand buried in his hair is cold, and the scent of rot and blood is sharp in his nose. Claws are pressed against his chest.

_Closer and closer._ The shadow's voice is an eager whisper in his ear. _I don't know who scarred your soul so deeply, Enjolras, but I am grateful to them. It means we can end this farce now._

Yes.

Yes, they can.

Eric is with him, acting in tandem with him, both of their thoughts bent on only one thing.

They will kill this monster.

And in killing it, they will protect their people and their purpose.

The sword burns bright with blue fire, and he doesn't take time to think between having it in his hand and thrusting it back into the body of the creature that is striving to tear into his soul.

It screams, and the sound tears at his ears, the shriek of twisting metal, the yowl of an eviscerated creature. He turns, holding tight to the sword, intending to rip it through the monster's body and end it all.

The creature reels back, rips itself off the sword, and disappears as a pitch-black night suddenly descends on the barricade.

"_No_." Snarling out the word, Enjolras wills there to be light, bright and revealing.

The light of a beautiful dawn fills the sky, drives the shadows back to small corners. It doesn't, however, reveal the injured monster.

"Face me!" Flicking blood from the sword, Enjorlas turns in a slow circle. "Face us! Or are you too much a coward to fight me like this?"

_There is no cowardice involved._ The words are a low hiss, coming from everywhere and nowhere. _There is simply wisdom. Why risk being bitten by your meal when you can simply kill it from afar?_

"You can't." Snarling the words, Enjolras wills the day to be even brighter. For a moment he thinks it's going to work; then something twinges, behind his eyes, and the light falters but doesn't fade.

_Patience._ The creature practically purrs the word. _I have been so eager, so _hungry_, that I forgot to be patient. I have waited two hundred years for there to be a crack in that fiery soul of yours. Why am I rushing now, when the feast still isn't properly prepared?_

"You're afraid." The sword continues to flicker with blue phantom-flames. "You're hiding from me, you coward."

_I will come in my own time, when I am ready._ The words are soft, calm. _When you have found the last of them for me, when you have gathered all that I could ever want to your side, I will come for you._

"You think the timing will matter?" Stalking the empty, blood-spattered street, Enjolras searches in vain for a sign of the enemy. "When next you come, the outcome will be the same."

_No. When next I come, I will do what is needed to break you, even if it costs me that which I would rather not spend._ A long, slow laugh rumbles through the air. _Because once you break, Enjolras, forgotten visionary, powerless leader, they will follow you into oblivion._

"Face me!" The words echo off the buildings even as the light fades, the contours of the world softening. "Face me, you lying, slinking—"

XXX

"—monstrous, frightened, _evil_ beast! _Face me!_"

"Enjolras!" Grantaire shakes the man once more before pulling back sharply as fire-bright blue eyes pierce him, terrible fury twisting Enjolras' features into a beautiful, awful icon of vengeance. "Enjolras, it's me. You're awake. You're safe."

"Grantaire?" Enjolras blinks, slowly, the fury abruptly fading from his face. He runs a hand over his eyes, closing them once more. "Grant?"

"Here." Grant offers Eric an uncertain smile. "Are you all right? We woke you as soon as we could, as soon as you started yelling, but…"

"I'm fine. I stabbed it. I _hurt_ it… badly, I think." Eric's hands ball into fists. "It ran before I could finish it off."

"You stabbed it? Really? That's awesome. You're amazing, Eric. You—" Cutting off abruptly, Grant frowns at a darker, slick-looking patch in Eric's hair. There isn't enough light in the room for him to make out anything clearly, though, so he scrambles over Eric and off the bed to turn on the light.

Eric closes his eyes, turning away from the sudden glare, and Grant gets a good look at the wet red patch coating his hair near his right ear.

Moving back to the bed, Grant turns Eric's head the other way, revealing a similar patch. He knows what it is even before Eric reaches up, smearing the red liquid over his fingers.

"Ah…" A slight smile tilts the corners of Eric's mouth up. "I thought it hurt when the beast screamed."

"You can hear all right?" Grant's voice is a soft whisper.

"I can hear you fine." Eric smiles at him. "I'm really quite all right, Grant. The only thing it really did to me tonight is make me angry by running away once I had the upper hand. Though… I might have gained us a slight respite."

"A respite?" Grant settles on the edge of the bed, trying not to worry about the blood. "How?"

"It said it's going to be patient. It said it's going to wait to finish this until after we find Jehan." Lowering his hand to his lap, Eric offers a slight smile. "So, if we want to end this… we need to find our poet."


	21. Part Twenty-One: The Cast Complete

**Author's Note:** To answer questions about last chapter: the guys watched either the 10th anniversary concert or a bootleg of the current touring US cast (my personal favorite). I wanted to talk about the differences between the musical and the Brick without tearing down any easily-available adaptation (because hey, getting to see it live can be hard). I may do a short one-shot of the guys watching all sorts of different versions and making fun of all of them, though. Also, warning for this chapter: more shadow-torture, including torturing children. Because the shadow's nice like that. Thank you guys for reading and reviewing, it means a lot to me!

_Part Twenty-One: The Cast Complete_

The water closes over Javert's head, dark, cloying, and his body instinctively tries to struggle against it.

_Even in this you can't be certain, can you?_ The voice that whispers in his ear is cold, haughty. _Even in this, you are broken and useless._

He would protest, but what is the point in protest? There's no point in much of anything now—isn't that why he's here? Because there is no path forward, because there is no choice he can make that will allow him to continue. He cannot turn over the convict who spared his life; he cannot let the man go. He cannot live in a world where what is right is not lawful, and what is lawful is not right.

Hence, he cannot live.

_Such bitter despair. Such utter hopelessness._ If Javert didn't know better, he'd say the shadowed water is _disappointed_ in him, frustration in the tones. _Feed me, wretch. Give me what you can. Heal me. Strengthen me._

Something brushes against him in the water, arms wrapping around his chest, and he suddenly has something else to struggle against. He doesn't want this creature touching him. He doesn't want to feel its claws against his chest.

He may have no possible way to live, but he will have control of his death.

_A spark of life still._ The arms pull away abruptly, the water merely cold again rather than frigid ice. _Ah, but that tastes sweeter._

He tries to reach the surface of the water. He tries to push himself away from the monster, the demon, the _thing_ that has no right or reason to exist. He keeps its claws away from his chest, though they scratch and scrabble at his ankles, at his wrists, at his face, coming at him from every direction with no warning. Eyes stinging, burning in the contaminated water, he looks for any speck of light, tries to feel for any sense of direction.

There is nothing to help him, though, no surface to reach. There is nothing but darkness, wet, encapsulating, all-consuming, terrible darkness, and eventually his mouth opens.

Eventually water floods his lungs, heavy, painful, and the darkness is laced with the red of exploding stars as he slowly suffocates.

He thinks he hears the creature laughing as he dies, but it may just be the pounding of blood in his ears as consciousness fades.

XXX

James wakes, gasping and choking, hours before dawn.

(_Fight it. Don't die for it._)

Drawing in a deep breath, struggling not to gag, waiting for his heart rate to slow down, James presses the heels of both hands to his eyes. It's a dream. Just a dream, nothing more, just a nightmare, and he mustn't let it affect him this badly.

He mustn't let the fact that he's been having this dream every night for the last three days bother him.

He's never liked water much. He's always been accused of lacking any poetry in his thoughts or his soul, and most assume his disinterest in rivers and lakes and the ocean to be simply an extension of that. Perhaps it is, in a way—he can't see going somewhere else for relaxation when he's quite content in his home, in his city, doing his job.

But he also hates the water, a gut reaction, bone-deep, that he's never been able to break. He's tried. He forced himself to learn how to swim when he was still in middle school, because the thought of drowning, of being unable to resist while the water claimed him, was even more terrifying than the thought of willingly going into the water. Though he learned how to swim, and he can certainly handle being around the water when he has to be, there's still a part of him that loathes the sound of running water, the sight of cascading rapids, and nothing will make him nauseous quite as quickly as a whirlpool does. Spinning and spinning, spiraling dark shadows into blackness into death, and—

And he needs to stop thinking about this.

Struggling to his feet, he reaches for the light on the bedside table and flips it on.

He won't get back to sleep for several hours if he gets back to sleep at all. He might as well look through some of his case files, see if anything comes to him now that will still make sense come morning.

Counting up the hours of sleep that he's gotten, James rubs at his neck and sighs.

Perhaps he should see if someone on the night shift would be willing to trade with him, and hope that sleeping during the day will let him rest a bit easier.

XXX

It's cold.

Gavroche hates the cold. It's worse than all the other things he has to fight, because it kills through apathy. It kills by lulling, by easing you into sleep and hopelessness, and he doesn't want to die like that. If he dies, he wants others to notice. _He_ wants to notice. He wants to die _doing_ something, fighting or thieving or… or _anything_, not just settling down to a shivering sleep and never waking up.

Huddling down under his threadbare blanket, his body curled tightly around itself to try to preserve what heat he can, he shivers in the darkness of his elephant and waits for morning and, hopefully, a bit more warmth.

_Sleep._ The whisper works its way through the skittering of the rats. _Sleep and die forgotten, food for us._

"Oh, be still, my little pets, my little mice." The rats simply continue to skitter about. "You'll have food enough without me."

_Die for me, little one._ The whisper is almost gentle as it caresses the words. _Die for me, abandoned one. Die alone, in fear, and let me use that fear to break him._

That's not a rat.

"What are you?" Gavroche's hand gropes for the iron bar that serves him as protection against anyone trying to do something foolish in the night. "What're you talking about? What're you tryin' t' pull?"

_I am the antithesis of him—of you._ It's too dark for there to be shadows, but Gavroche thinks he sees one anyway, twisting, turning, pacing back and forth just outside his reach. _I am the one who will change your light to a terrible conflagration._

"Yeah?" Gavroche shivers, baring his teeth in a snarl, the bar held tight in his hand. Eponine wouldn't let this creature threaten her. Montparnasse wouldn't let it scare him. "Well, I think the rats are scarier 'n you are. Would o' done better just chittering around with the rest of them."

The shadow laughs, an ugly, mocking sound. _No, little one. The _cold_ is more frightening. I thought long and hard to create this for you. I am not going to make the same mistakes that I have with him again. Now, shall we see how long it takes you to die?_

He fights until the end. He keeps the metal bar in his hand until his fingers are too numb to hold onto it any more. He chafes his arms with hands that are frozen slabs of meat. He sings to himself, his voice wavering in the cold air, echoing eerily in the elephant.

The shadow sings back, a mocking, crooning lullaby.

He tries to run. He tries to escape, to climb down, but the exit is barred from the outside, and there is no other way out that he can find.

Eventually his eyelids are too heavy for him to keep open. His tongue is too thick and chilled to sing. His thoughts are too slow to think of words, anyway, and he knows what's happening as his body stops shivering.

_So much frustration in your despair. So much anger and fire and _life_, little one, even in the darkest of your emotions._ The shadow's hand strokes through his hair, a more bitter cold, the prick of sharp claws along his face. It's voice is soft, almost gentle. _So many of you I marked that day, all drawn back together, and we will create the most glorious flames you can imagine._

He dies in the cold, broken dreams of fire playing behind his eyes.

XXX

Gary wakes to heat, the hot, oppressive heat of summer in New England, and he's never been happier to be warm in his life.

"Stupid." Shivering, he rubs his hands up and down his arms. "Stupid, stupid dream. Like I'd die like that. I wouldn' stay somewhere too cold. I'm smarter 'n that."

(_Me, too. Didn't happen like that… didn'…_)

Crawling out of his pile of sheets, Gary stretches and shivers again, trying to shake off the last vestiges of the dream. The foreclosed house that he's currently using as his base is silent around him, the light of early morning just starting to show through the windows. If he heads down to Marco's, he might be able to finagle a bit of breakfast once the early-morning crowd leaves. Or he could try the church food kitchen, though he's getting rather sick of being told that they'll be very happy to talk to his parents for him. Or the police. Or both.

He can take care of himself just fine, thank you very much. He doesn't need people who don't know what's going on trying to help and screwing everything up.

Maybe he'll go see Erin today, instead.

Or go see about seeing Erin, since she's been home maybe a quarter of the time that she usually is recently. He's pretty sure she isn't even sleeping at home anymore, though if she's sleeping with her college-boy then he really doesn't want to know about it. It would be nice to talk to her, though, to see how she's doing, especially since word on the street yesterday was that she wants to see him.

He's not sure how she expects him to _find_ her if she's not home, but it would be nice to see her, too.

Sighing, combing out his hair with his fingers, Gary pokes through his handful of clothes looking for the least dirty ones.

First, he'll get food.

Maybe tonight he'll go looking for his sister.

XXX

Grant wakes before Eric does.

Turning just his head, slowly, carefully, Grant studies Eric. Eric's face is relaxed, his mouth just slightly open as he breathes in a slow, even rhythm. His fine hair is a tangled blond halo around his face, and Grant has a fleeting thought of running his hands through it, of smoothing it back behind Eric's ears, the strands sliding between his fingers like silk.

He's not going to let himself touch Eric, though. Not until he talks to Eric about things—not until he decides, for certain, he's willing to take that risk.

Besides, shifting to touch Eric would likely involve moving Eric's arm from where it's lying across Grant's chest, waking the man in the process, and he'd rather not do that. He'd rather just sit here and watch Eric, calm and at peace, for however long it's possible, reveling in the steady, warm weight of Eric's arm draped over him.

_This isn't the first time he's done this._ Grantaire's voice is a sleepy, contented murmur as they both work on memorizing every line of Eric's face, every shadow, every fine blond hair ghosting his upper lip and chin. _Touching us like this—he's done it every night, I think._

_I think you're right._ It had been hard to tell Monday and Tuesday, Eric's alarm clock waking both of them, but Grant has fleeting recollections of pressure against his chest, Eric's hair sliding along his shoulder. _Does it bother you, him being this close to us?_

_It's _him_._ Grantaire's utter devotion fills the simple pronoun, makes it into something far more than a way to refer to a friend. _Whatever he wants to do to me, I will allow. Whatever he wants me to do, I will try… I just might not be very good at actually doing it._

_Let's not think about dominoes._ Shoving the uncomfortable memory away, Grant continues to study Eric's sleeping face. Eric looks healthier, fitter, the dark circles that had become a fixture around his eyes finally faded to the point where they're barely visible. As much as Eric's chafed at the shadow completely ignoring him for the last two days, it's been good for his body. His beautiful, ridiculously perfect body, the lithe fighter's muscles showing where the sleeve of his T-shirt has hiked up on the arm that's flung across Grant's chest, and Grant closes his eyes for a moment as his breath catches in his throat.

He needs to decide what he's going to do about Eric's offer. He can't just continue to leave it dangling there between them, an unspoken awkwardness. Well, at least awkward on his part—Eric doesn't seem bothered by it. The only thing that's bothered Eric over the last few days has been the fact that the shadow's been lurking in everyone's dreams _but _Eric's, torturing the rest of them while leaving Eric unscathed. No one's ended up bleeding or bruised like Erin, though, so maybe they're all getting better at handling the beast.

_If I… if I told him yes, I wanted something physical…_ Grant can feel his face heating, which is a little silly. Then again, having to ask permission from a nineteenth-century version of himself to consider dating someone is a little silly. _How freaked out would you be?_

Grantaire is quiet for several seconds, but Grant can feel him pondering, the older man's thoughts running in slow circles. Finally Grantaire's thoughts reach out, and a deep sense of uncertainty floods Grant's mind. _I don't know, Grant. He's beautiful, body and soul and mind. I've always thought that. And I… if I could believe he wants it, if I could believe I was worthy of him… anything that he would consider, anything that he would do, can't be wrong._

_Yeah, there's nothing wrong with his sleeping with a guy. Or with us sleeping with a guy, I suppose, though I've got to admit he's the only one I've ever considered doing it with._ Grant lets out a long, slow sigh. _It's more… do I want to shackle him with _this_ particular guy. I mean, he keeps saying he sees potential in me, he keeps giving me extra shots… and I keep fucking it up._

_I died with him. _Grantaire offers the thought tentatively, doubts seething through him that mirror Grant's own. _I may have missed the revolution, but I did stand with him in the end. Perhaps there's a chance we won't disappoint him?_

_Maybe._ Sighing, Grant shakes his head. _It's so hard to decide either way. I would love to have something with him. I would love to be _special_ to him, and you can't get much more special than being an ace guy's boyfriend. I just… don't want to ruin what I have with him. If he sent me away, really didn't want anything to do with me because we try this and I fuck it up… I think I'd prefer dying, Grantaire._

_I know. I would rather die than be without him, as well._ It's yet another doubt, another hesitancy. He died with Enjolras, but dying with Enjolras was far easier than living without him. Does that make it less worthy? Does that make their victory less sweet, or does the simple fact that they _did_ care that much, they _did_ believe that much in Enjolras make it still an important moment?

_Let's not do this to ourselves._ Grant shudders, opening his eyes to study Eric's face again. Even in repose, there's something vibrantly _alive_ and _fierce_ about Eric that he'll never be able to capture, no matter how often he sketches the man. Closing his eyes again, Grant addresses Grantaire. _I'll talk with Jona and Lyle later, see what they think. I just wanted to make sure that you weren't going to panic and die if I did decide to kiss him. Die again, I suppose. Maybe I should have chosen a better word there. You know what I meant._

_I do. _Grantaire's amusement brings a smile to Grant's mouth. _And no. Unless Enjolras says that he doesn't want it, I would be deeply honored to have any kind of relationship whatsoever with him._

"Grant?" Eric's voice is a sleepy murmur.

Opening his eyes, Grant finds himself staring straight into Eric's bright blue eyes. His breath catches in his throat, and he has to swallow hard before he can speak. "Yeah?"

Eric's brows are drawn together, a familiar look of frustrated concern on his face. "Are you all right? You looked a little stressed. Trouble with the shadow? Or Grantaire?"

"Nope. I didn't see the shadow last night, and Grantaire and I are getting along great. Just thinking about the future. It's always a little daunting." Grant smiles up at Eric, starts to shift to sit up, and realizes that Eric's arm is still pinning him in place.

Eric blinks, looking from Grant's face down to his chest, and then abruptly pulls his arm back to his side of the bed. "Sorry about that."

"It's all right. Didn't bother me." Grant draws a deep breath, and then forces his tongue to keep going, possibly against his better judgment. "It seems to keep happening, though. It happened Sunday. I think it happened Monday and yesterday, though you had that alarm going off so my recollection is a little blurred. And then today. Does it… I mean… what does it mean?"

Eric smiles, his face just slightly flushed. "It means I move in my sleep. Does it have to mean more than that?"

"Well… no, I guess not. It's just… you. Usually pretty much everything you do or say means something. So I thought… but you're ace, so… and…" Grant bites his lip to stop words from escaping. "Yeah, I was just wondering if it meant anything."

Shrugging, Eric turns away, his face still red. "I've always liked hugging things—hugging people. You said that I don't touch people very often, and it's true, but it's largely because touching people can be very easily misinterpreted. I don't want to give someone the wrong idea. I guess my subconscious still hasn't quite gotten the message yet, though."

"Misinterpreted like I just did. Right. Got it. It doesn't mean anything." Grant tries not to let his tone sound too disappointed. It helps that there's guilt overlaying any disappointment—this is not the kind of thing he really wants to prove Eric right about.

"It means I'm comfortable around you. It means I care about you. It means I'm sleeping right next to you and _able_ to accidentally hug you." Eric shrugs, finally turning back to face Grant. "Why? Are you considering my offer?"

"You have no idea." Sighing, Grant raises a hand to rub at his eyes. "But I still haven't come up with a solid answer, so please don't ask. I'll tell you when I know."

"All right." Eric nods, standing and stretching.

Grant forces himself not to watch the way Eric's back arches, the way the muscles in his calves tense, the way the T-shirt sleeves slide down his arms to show his shoulders.

He definitely doesn't notice at all.

He would really appreciate it if his body would notice that they're not noticing and _behave_.

_You should really come to a decision soon._ Grantaire's amusement at least pushes away some of the erotic tension. _Because this is going to get awkward otherwise._

_Shut up._ There's no malice in the words as Grant allows himself to fall back on the bed. _Especially because you're not helping. Stop thinking of all the gay Greek gods that he reminds you of. It's distracting._

_They're not all gods. Some are heroes. And it's not my fault that the Greeks were very proud of their virility._ Grantaire _really_ shouldn't get so much entertainment out of teasing Grant. It's just not fair.

"You're sure you're all right?"

Slitting his eyes open and forcing them to stay focused on Eric's face, locking onto those blue, concerned, _gorgeous_ eyes, Grant nods. He thinks he manages to keep his voice normal when he speaks. "I am perfectly fine. Just having a nice little chat with Grantaire. He's also perfectly fine. I hope Enjolras is also fine."

"Enjolras is fine." The concern on Eric's face gives way to bemused amusement as he continues to watch Grant. "About as confused as I am, but otherwise doing just fine. I suppose we'll leave you and Grantaire to your discussion. Try not to stay in bed too late—we need to be setting up for freshman orientation by noon."

"Yes, because new college students are _actually_ going to start showing up at twelve thirty when they could instead be sleeping off whatever they did their first night without mom and dad watching over them."

"I did." Eric shrugs, calm, not embarrassed in the least. "Mostly because I wanted to get a feel for the administration and figured that seeing what they wanted to show new students would be a good way to get an idea of the kind of campus environment they were trying to create."

"Oh?" Grant turns over, his head pillowed on his arms as he continues to watch Eric. "And what did you learn?"

"That they were very careful about what they said and how they stated things. That they never pushed anything farther than the general populace—or at least the general population that would be interested in educating their children—would be comfortable with. They talk about diversity, but they couched it in terms of race and a binary gender dynamic and Judeo-Christian religion, ignoring the vast majority of LGBT themes and less mainstream religions and even vast swaths of feminist discussion. They talked about campus safety, but they warned students against drinking, against being alone, used terms that are more victim-blaming and heterosexist than were necessary. They talked to students about thinking for ourselves and intellectual honesty while refusing to push any boundaries that would frighten more conservative parents."

"Wow." Grant blinks. "And here I just noticed that they had free condoms and thought that was kind of cool."

"That was pretty cool, actually." Eric smiles. "It was probably the most daring thing that they did, and I did notice and appreciate it."

"Wait, rewind." Grinning, Grant shakes his head. "I don't think I can process hearing you talk about condoms as something that you appreciate."

"The administration was acknowledging—or, rather, was allowing the health center to recognize—that the majority of students were going to have an active sex life. It's not something most parents would want to consider. It was the administration acknowledging student agency." Shoulders lifting in an elegant, simple shrug, Eric moves over to his closet. "I wish they had done a lot more, but at least it was something."

"There's only so much they can do without scaring off parents and more conservative students, though. And if they scare them off at the start, the kids aren't going to get a chance to stick around and come up with their own ideas."

"At the same time, if we don't challenge the status quo—or make those who don't fall easily into the standard paradigm feel like they have a place—nothing will ever change."

Grant allows his head to fall to the side, still watching Eric. "They're doing more this year."

"They are. They extended an invitation to Con and Cori to talk. We'll see how the rest of the speakers do." Clothes in hand, Eric turns back to Grant. "I'd be happier still if they were actually considering our proposals for co-ed dorm rooms, or if they had agreed to use something like Vancouver's 'Don't Be That Guy' campaign to try to combat sexual violence instead of the stereotypical warnings against women partying, but every bit of forward progress is something."

"And the Independents will be there to fill in the pieces that the administration misses."

"We will. Which is why it's important that we're there for all of orientation, start to finish. Besides, it's part of looking professional and prepared. Unlike back in Paris, we're not working underground. There's a certain amount of respectability needed if we don't want to make getting people listen to us even harder than it already is." Eric grimaces, running a hand through his tangled hair. "I'll save you the speech about respectability and how far I can push my blurring of gender stereotypes before people stop listening to me, but you look like you want to sleep some more and I'd like to shower before I head out. Plus I'm supposed to be there to help Con and Cori give the LGBT introductory speech. If you want to see us…"

"Even though it's a speech I've seen you give several times before, I never tire of watching you talk about things you're passionate about." Which is everything, really, and Grant remembers once more how much he loves this man, has loved him dearly for the last two centuries. "I'll be there, Eric."

"Good." Eric moves to the door before hesitating, turning to Grant with a smile. "I'll be looking for you in the crowd."

Melting back down into the pillow and bedding once Eric exits the room, Grant studies the ceiling with a smile.

He definitely needs to talk to Lyle and Jona tonight, because he's really considering doing something that's either very brave or very stupid, and he'd like someone else's opinion on it before he acts.

XXX

Studying his reflection in the mirror, Jean adjusts his shirt once more, frowning.

The pants look all right. The pale cream fabric falls straight down from his hips, emphasizing how long his legs are and how slim his limbs are at the same time. The sash around his waist hides any hint of a curve there, and he's rather fond of the fabric he chose, a dusky charcoal with a flower design, only each flower is made of various human bones and colored insects.

The shirt works well enough, too. The black fabric is loose and flowing, and the thin silver chains decorating it help keep any curves from drawing the eye. Not that he has many curves to begin with, thank all the deities, and he toys with the dark red streak in his hair for a few seconds before deciding that enough is enough.

He looks fine. He looks _good_, even, and there's no sense getting this worked up about his appearance just because it's his first time out in a new environment. He'll pass or he won't. People will understand or they won't.

Slinging his empty bag over his shoulder, Jean smiles and gives himself a thumb's up in the mirror.

Today is his first day of college, and come hell or high water he's going to enjoy himself.

Or at least get something good to write about.

He's all right with either outcome, really.

XXX

"Con."

Cori's voice is a whisper of barely-contained energy, Cori's hand a sudden fierce heat on his shoulder.

"—meetings twice a month if you're interested." Con tries to ignore the distraction, finishing up his conversation with the two freshmen who are clearly debating asking him something more or fleeing.

Apparently deciding that escape is the better part of valor, the two take the contact information he hands over to them and skitter off, talking animatedly to each other as they head toward the safer student organizations. It had taken a certain amount of bravery to approach the political section of booths in the first place, and Con hopes that the young women will actually consider coming to either a meeting of the Independents or Stand Proud. Both organizations could use the support.

"_Con._" Cori's hand tightens on his shoulder, demanding his attention.

"What?" Con turns to his over-eager friend with a raised eyebrow. "Have we decided not to recruit now, because—"

"Look at him. The one in the weird clothes, the one who doesn't know if he's goth or scene or emo or some strange combination of them all. The one with the red streak in his hair, and that ungodly thing around his waist." Cori nods into the crowd of milling first-year students. "Does he remind you of anyone?"

Scanning the crowd, Con manages to pick out the young man who's arrested Cori's attention. It's not hard to find him. In a crowd that's mainly wearing shorts, jean, and T-shirts, the young man with the streak of red in his hair and a costume that would look more at home at a convention or on a Hollywood pirate ship stands out. Dramatically, especially for a man of less-than-average height, and Con has to give the young man credit for that, even if he's not sure what he thinks of the outfit. "I see him. What about him?"

"Ignore the clothing. Well, keep in mind that it's weird but otherwise try to ignore that. Try to ignore the blood-red streak in his hair… though the blood-red part does kind of fit. Does he remind you of anyone?"

"Cori…" Con draws a sharp breath as Combeferre steps forward, suddenly all eager energy and wary uncertainty. The young man does have a distinct resemblance to Jehan, at least as much as the rest of their current bodies have to their previous ones, and Combeferre finds himself taking a step toward the young man before he thinks about it. Letting his breath out in a slow sigh, he turns back to Cori and speaks in French. "The man does have at least a passing resemblance to Prouvaire. He has a softer face, a bit less angle to his jaw and cheeks, but it's certainly possible. That's what you're thinking, isn't it?"

"It is." Courfeyrac's eyes are fixed on the young man, his body practically vibrating with pent-up energy. "It seems almost too good to be true, that we'd just walk into him, but…"

"But that's how the rest of us found each other. Shared ideals, shared passions, and a good bit of luck." Or destiny, and Combeferre isn't sure yet whether he's on the side of luck or destiny so far as their all finding each other, but he's happy either way. "Were you thinking of approaching him?"

"Yes." Courfeyrac grins, though there's a worried cast to the way his eyes are drawn together. "That was what we agreed on, correct? If we find him, or think we find him, we talk to him, try to warn him… what else could we do, Combeferre?"

What else, indeed. If they tried to ignore him, if they tried to run away from rather than embrace Jean Prouvaire, what would that change? Would it keep the shadow from Jehan? Would it continue to give Enjolras a sorely-needed respite?

Or would it simply mean that Jean was unprepared, unprotected, that the shadow could taunt him with being neglected or abandoned by his friends in a time of need?

Knowledge is power. Knowledge is strength and potential and opportunity. He has always believed that, fundamentally, and he won't let any monster make him doubt it.

Especially since knowing even the small amount that they do about what the shadow is and what it's trying has given them their best chances to hurt it.

Cori turns to him, speaking in English. "You're going to be all right manning the booth for a few minutes on your own?"

Retreating, Combeferre allows Con to have control of his body again. Nodding, Con gives Cori a smile. "Finny's going to be back in a minute, and I can always steal some of the Independents down here if need be. Talk with him. Try not to sound too much like a crazy man, and see if you can figure out if we're right."

"Managing to do all of that is going to be a nigh on impossible task, but I'll do my best." Cori grins widely. "It helps that I'm fairly sure anyone who dresses like that to freshman orientation thinks a little bit outside the box anyway. Maybe I'll just get a new friend who's all right with the craziness."

Another trio of hesitant freshman approaches the booth, and Con gives Cori a shove toward the strange young man that they've been watching before gathering another handful of fliers. "Go on. Call if you need help."

Cori laughs, slipping around the booth and into the milling sea of freshmen. "The day I need your help talking to a pretty guy, Con, is going to be a very sad day indeed."

XXX

Jean turns from the environmental activists' booth, a thick stack of what he's fairly certain is recycled paper in hand. The woman who gave him the papers had been very passionate about what she was saying, and even if she'd spoken a bit too quickly sometimes and mumbled a few of the words he liked the gist of her arguments. Nature is beautiful; nature should be protected. Shoving the stack of papers into the bag at his side, he finds himself smiling.

Perhaps she'll be someone he can go hiking with later. Perhaps—

"Hi." The curly-haired man appears at his side as if by magic, his hands in the back pockets of his black dress slacks, his pale yellow short-sleeved dress shirt partially open. "I'm Cori. It's nice to meet you."

"It's nice to meet you, as well." Jean holds out a hand, though when Cori simply stares at the proffered limb and doesn't take it after a few seconds Jean instead adjusts his bag's shoulder strap. "I'm Jean."

Cori's face pales immediately, impressively, and for a long moment he just stares at Jean.

"Cori?" Jean stares back at the other man, at a loss as to what to do. He's never had someone react like this to his _name_ before. Granted, he's only been pronouncing his name this way for the last year or so, but still. "Um… are you all right?"

"Say your name again?" Cori's voice is a breathless monotone, and he leans closer to Jean.

"Jean. It's French, sounds kind of like John." Jean smiles, resisting the urge to apologize. He hasn't done anything wrong. He has no idea why Cori continues to look like he just kicked him. "Do you… not like the French language?"

"No." Cori finally relaxes and smiles, a half-chuckle escaping. When he opens his mouth again, he slips into French himself. "I like it well enough. Are you French, then?"

"No." Jean shakes his head, sliding into a clear space off to the side of the aisle to try to stay out of the way of the students looking to head to booths. He continues the conversation in French. "I'm American. I just ended up with a French name."

Cori nods, a bit of the smile fading, hesitancy taking its place. "Well, most American names come from somewhere else, so I suppose it shouldn't be too surprising. You speak French very well, if I may say so."

"Thanks. I traveled around Europe for the last year and a half—I wanted to explore a bit before coming to college and picking a major." Jean smiles, thinking back on his adventures. Some had been wonderful; some had been rather harrowing; all had been thoroughly worthwhile. Switching to Italian, he grins at the other man. "I honed a few of my other language skills, too."

"Sorry." Cori shrugs, rubbing at the back of his head and continuing in French. "We—I don't speak that one."

"Ah. Nihongo?" Jean smiles as Cori shakes his head again.

"Nope." Cori spreads his hands in a gesture of incomprehension. "I speak Spanish and English, mainly, with a scattering of Swahili for fun."

"And French." Lapsing back into English himself, Jean studies the other man again.

"Ah, yeah. And French." Cori's face flushes, just slightly.

Jean has no idea why Cori's blushing—or why Cori seems surprised to have to add French to his list of languages, though Cori speaks it with a fluency and ease that Jean has rarely heard outside of Europe or Quebec.

It's hard to tell ages with college students, but Cori looks close enough to Jean's age. He carries himself with a poise and purpose that most of the freshmen don't seem to have, though, so he could be either a freshman or someone older. "Are you transferring here, or…?"

"I'm a student—I've _been_ a student. Third year, junior, however you want to refer to it."

"We're about the same age, then." Jean toys with the strap of his bag again, pleased by the similarity and still not sure why.

"Really? That's cool." Cori's gaze slides away from Jean, studies the booths around them. After a brief pause he continues, a vague look of frustration on his face. "Are you looking into clubs?"

"Yeah. There seem to be plenty to choose from."

"Just about anything you'd want to do, there's a club for that. If there's any that you're interested in, I can tell you what I know about them. I'm pretty familiar with… well, with a lot of people on campus." The wry smile on Cori's face speaks volumes. "I'm part of two of the organizations here—Stand Proud, it's an LGBT group on campus, that's my roommate running the booth over there, and a broader political activist group called the Independents, they're a bit further down the line." Cori waves to the man with glasses currently talking to a group of new students in front of the distinctive rainbow flag.

Jean finds himself biting his lip, hard, looking between Cori and the booth. "So why did you decide to approach me?"

"You caught my eye." Cori grins, an expression of white teeth and bright joy. "You've got quite the fashion sense. Other than that… well, actually, there's no other than that. I like talking to people. All it takes is catching my eye, and away my tongue goes."

"I certainly don't mind talking, especially not to someone who's been around campus a while and might be able to give me some tips." Jean returns Cori's grin. He doesn't know if it's Cori's outgoing personality or the thrill of knowing he's passing, easily, but he feels comfortable with this man.

He feels _safe_ with this man, completely and utterly, and that's a strange thing for him to feel with someone he doesn't know well.

Tilting his head, he studies Cori once more, head to toe. There's something… familiar about Cori, though Jean can't place what it is. "Have we ever met before?"

"Not in this life." Though Cori continues to grin, there's a strained undercurrent to the way he says the words.

"But in another life?" Jean finds himself reaching up to toy with the red streak in his hair, his face heating. He probably shouldn't bring up topics that other people tend to find strange five minutes into his meeting this man, but he's curious how Cori's going to react.

"We might have met in another life. Maybe we were even good friends, in another life. Close friends." Cori's smile takes on a sad edge, and he shifts his hands from his back pockets to crossed in front of his chest.

"You actually believe in reincarnation?" Tilting his head to the side, Jean studies Cori again, looking for any signs that Cori's teasing him.

"Yes. Very yes." Another slight chuckle slides from Cori's mouth. "I have decided recently that I believe in pretty much everything until it's proven incorrect."

"I tend to find that the best policy to have. Unless there's a good reason not to believe in something, why cater to doubt? The world's a much more exciting place when you leave room for gods and ghosts and magic and monsters and reincarnation and radiant creatures that stretch the boundaries of imagination."

"Spoken like a poet." There's a note of nostalgia to Cori's tone that Jean doesn't understand. "Do you ever write anything?"

"Do I ever not write?" Eyes dropping to the ground, Jean scratches behind his left ear and shrugs. "I write poems, short stories, occasionally get the urge to write a novel and get distracted after doing about five percent of it… I don't know if anything'll ever come of it. I've gotten a handful of poems published locally, but nothing too exciting."

"Jean…" Cori's voice caresses the word, giving it the proper pronunciation. It should be frightening. It should be strange. But somehow, possibly because of the note of sorrow and grief that goes with the word, it's sweet rather than creepy. "I should probably get back to helping Con out, but would you like to get together with us and a few of our other friends tonight? I'd like to talk with you more, and maybe tell you about some of the things going on around here lately. If you're into reincarnation and ghosts and strange things like that, you should find it interesting."

"I… think I'd enjoy that very much." Maybe it's foolish, agreeing to meet this man already, but it doesn't feel foolish. It feels _right_, as though meeting with this man is something that's been meant to happen. _Everything_ about this feels right, and he doesn't want Cori to leave, for some reason. He wants to keep talking about his writing, to tell Cori about his travels, to discuss their beliefs in the supernatural and the paranormal… to talk about politics and identity with this man, and that's something that he usually reserves for later in a friendship. "Just give me your number and name the place."

They exchange phone numbers, and Cori texts him the address for a local restaurant.

Then Cori darts forward and envelops Jean in a brief, fierce hug before dancing back away again.

Blinking at Cori, Jean finds himself at a loss for words.

"Sorry." Cori's smile has more sorrow and relief in it than apology. "I just… I'm really… I'm looking forward to seeing you this evening. To talking with you. I know the others will, too. See you later!"

Jean watches Cori skitter back to his booth.

Cori almost immediately starts chatting with other freshmen, earning laughter, smiles, causing those who look nervous and uncertain to straighten. It's amazing, watching the way he can make people relax and smile. There's also an ease to his speech and demeanor that hadn't been present when he was talking to Jean.

Why? What is it about Jean that causes Cori to react differently?

Jean watches Con, the way the man interacts with people more calmly but no less sincerely or caringly than Cori, and something causes his breath to catch in his throat. Why does he feel like he knows these men?

Why does he feel like he's met them before, in shadows, in dreams that he can't quite remember?

Shaking himself, turning away from the booth, he decides that he's definitely going to meet with these men tonight.

Keeping away from a mystery was never something he was good at.

XXX

"They have a club that's dedicated just to watching bad movies."

"Yeah." Mark nods, smiling at the two men sitting at the booth and pulling Erin further down the aisle. "Come on, I know that you've heard of MST3K before. Everyone has. It's a long, proud tradition now."

"Yeah, but… they have a club dedicated to people sittin' around and purposefully watchin' bad movies." Erin seems more amused than disgruntled, following him as he pulls on her arm, eyes scanning the other booths. "You guys don' have anythin' better to do with your time than watch stuff that you know is bad?"

"It's not a matter of having something better to do with your time, it's a matter of finding it enjoyable to sit around and make fun of things with your friends."

"I think most people manage t' do that without payin' dues." Erin points toward another booth. "Kayaking. They have a club for kayaking! And for somethin' that I'm assuming is a martial art, since it's unpronounceable… and one fo' writing! Are there book clubs, too? Are there clubs for reading?"

"I'm sure there are. They might not be here, though." Mark smiles, taking Erin's hand again and continuing to guide her through the aisle. "These are the booths for clubs that have university approval and require dues and membership lists."

"Wait…" Erin frowns. "So the Independents are, like, a real club? With someone othah than Eric givin' orders?"

"So far as I understand it Eric has one of his political science teachers wrapped around his finger. The guy basically signs anything that Eric needs him to sign to get school funding and allow us to participate in school events, and otherwise lets Eric do his thing. Hence why we've been doing non-university things for the last few months, and why you and I are apparently both members despite never having paid dues, signed anything, or otherwise actually signed up for it." Mark shrugs, easing his way between two groups of freshmen. "The whole being reincarnated Frenchmen thing might have helped, I suppose. We seem to be attracted to each other—to be congregating again like we did before. But I think Eric pretty much chooses who he wants on his executive board based on what _he_ wants, not what anybody else tells him."

"Sounds like Eric." Smiling, Erin elbows her way through another gaggle of freshmen and towards a sign that displays several prominent sci-fi books and movies. "I want to go see that one."

"Sure. I—" Mark stumbles and trips over another student's bag, only keeping himself from falling by grabbing onto the nearest solid object.

The nearest solid object happens to be a young, dark blonde, absolutely gorgeous female student. She's wearing a skirt, a long, flowing, light blue garment that reaches almost to her ankles, and a pale white shirt with flowers carefully embroidered on it. A small gold cross hangs on a chain around her neck.

He knows, even before he looks. He knows the exact shade that her eyes will be, the shape, the emotion that will be in them.

He knows, because Marius knows, a sudden ecstasy flooding through him, and his breath catches in his throat.

"Are you all right?" The woman smiles at him. Her skin is just slightly darker than Cosette's had been, but her smile is just as beautiful, just as genuine.

"Cosette." The word is a strangled whisper, barely managing to slide past his teeth.

"Ah… no. Courtney." Brushing hair back behind her ear, she continues to smile at him. "Have we met before?"

"No. Not yet. I mean…" Drawing a deep breath, keeping Marius from surging to the front by sheer force of will, Mark shakes his head. They might be wrong. This might be someone else, and even if it _is_ Cosette they really don't want to scare her off within thirty seconds of meeting her. "My name's Mark. Yours is Courtney?"

"Yes." Courtney purses her lips, head tilting as she studies him, and he thinks that's amusement crinkling the skin around her eyes. He hopes it is, at least. "Did you manage to hit your head? I thought that I had worked pretty well to break your fall, but I could have been wrong."

"No. I'm fine." Forcing his fingers to release their hold on Cosette's—_Courtney's_—arm, Mark takes a step back. "Sorry. I didn't mean to run into you like that."

"It's all right. It's a madhouse here. A very interesting madhouse, but still a madhouse, and it's easy enough to get knocked around if you're not being careful." Giving him a full smile, Courtney shifts her backpack and looks around. "You're looking into clubs, too?"

"Ah, showing a friend around. I'm already involved in a bit more than I intended to be so far as clubs go."

"You're not a freshman, then?" Courtney's smile fades, just slightly.

"No. I'm a second-year student—law student." He needs to think of something else to talk about, some other topic of normal conversation so that Marius doesn't just start reciting love poetry. "What are you planning on studying?"

"I don't know yet. Something. Anything. I just… want to see what's out there, to see a bit more of the world." Courtney's head ducks down, a light blush touching her cheeks. "I know it probably sounds cliched and silly, but…"

"It sounds great. It sounds fantastic." He should probably try not to smile quite so widely. If his face is hurting from grinning, it's probably going to scare her.

"So, you said that you were here with a friend?" Courtney looks around.

Starting guiltily, Mark looks around for Erin. She's standing a few feet away, in front of the booth she had initially pointed out, a look of sorrow and frustration twisting her features. Turning away from him abruptly, Erin begins studying the flier that the woman manning the booth gives her.

"I…" He needs to do something. He needs to talk with Courtney. He needs to talk with Erin. Given how Erin's looking and the fact that talking about the dead guy in his head or the dead girl in Erin's would probably frighten Courtney, talking with one of them at a time is probably a good idea for now. "Would you like to meet up for lunch tomorrow?"

"I…" Courtney blinks, clearly surprised and a little bit lost. "Do you need to be going?"

"Yes. My friend and I are going to need to be going, but you seem nice and perhaps we can show you around campus." At Courtney's continued look of uncertainty, he tries smiling again and taking a step back. "We can meet up at the food court at, say, one tomorrow, grab something to eat and then wander around?"

After another moment's deliberation Courtney nods. "All right. Sounds good. I'll see you then."

"Good. Great. I'm really looking forward to it." Backing towards Erin, Mark raises his hand in a tentative wave farewell.

Courtney waves back to him, smiling as well, and Mark feels his face flush as heat rushes out from his heart to fill the rest of his body.

_It's her. It's Cosette._ Marius would be crying, if he had control of their body. His relief and joy are beyond words, almost beyond anything Mark can comprehend. _Mark, it's Cosette._

_I think so. We don't know for sure, yet._

Except they do, more or less, because Marius is so _sure_, so _certain_, because every move she made and every word she said spoke to him of the woman he adores.

_We'll find out more tomorrow._ Licking his lips, Mark forces his eyes to focus on where he's going so he doesn't run into anyone else as he makes his way to Erin's side. _Just try to be patient until then._

Erin walks away from the booth as soon as he's at her side, keeping her back to him, not saying anything.

"Erin…"

"'at's her, i'n't it?" Erin's voice is the barest whisper.

"Maybe. Probably." He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to make this less awkward.

"She looks good. She looks… a lot like how Eponine remembers her looking, only with modern dress, obviously." Finally turning, just slightly, so she can look at him, Erin's voice rises to a more normal tone. "So when're we going to meet her?"

"I told her that I'd meet her tomorrow, show her around campus." Mark hurries on when Erin's lips press together into a thin line. "Us. We. We can meet her tomorrow, if you want."

"You're sure?" Erin comes to a dead stop, turning to face him fully. "You want me t' come t' your meeting?"

"Yes."

_No._ Marius' tone shifts from disgruntled to quietly accepting. _But I don't want to hurt her. I know, Mark. Let her come._

"_Yes_." Smiling, Mark reaches out to take Erin's hand. "We want you to come to the meeting."

Erin hesitates. "I don't know anything about campus."

"I could show both of you around. It'll be fun." Grinning, Mark squeezes Erin's hand. "It might put her more at ease, even, having another girl around."

_A chaperone._ Marius sighs. _I suppose it makes sense, especially since Cosette likely doesn't remember us._

_Yes, it makes sense._ Mark's rather proud of himself. _Just because stalking her worked the first time doesn't mean we have to do something that awkward this time._

_I did the best that I could._ A hint of sulkiness enters Marius' voice, though it's more than overwhelmed by the joy that he still feels at the prospect of meeting with Cosette again.

Mark sighs, trying to keep Marius' emotions separate from his and failing rather miserably. _And I'll do the best that I can._

"Does he not want me there?" Erin watches him, still wary, still uncertain.

"Marius is happy to see Cosette, if that's her." Leaning closer to Erin, lowering his voice to try to keep others from overhearing, Mark smiles. "But he's just fine with you coming with us."

"All right. Fine." Smiling herself, Erin takes his hand and pulls him toward another aisle. "I'll tag along with you tomorrow, try t' keep you out of trouble. Sound good?"

"Sounds great."

It doesn't solve his dilemma of what he wants to _do_ about Cosette and Eponine, Courtney and Erin, but at least he's fairly certain he hasn't managed to ruin anything too badly.

Yet.

Letting out a deep breath, he hopes that he can just continue like this for a little while.


	22. Part Twenty-Two: On the Same Page

**Author's Note: **Sorry for the delay on this chapter; real life has been a bit of a pain lately. As always, your reviews were greatly appreciated! I'm glad so many people are happy to have Jean and Cosette around. As for what's going on with Jean… there are enough clues to figure it out, but it'll also be explicitly stated in the next chapter. Again, thanks to all for reading and reviewing!

_Part Twenty-Two: On the Same Page_

Grant settles down in a well-cushioned, familiar seat, orders a beer, and waits for Lyle and Jona to join him.

Lyle and Jona had agreed to meet Grant a little bit early at the restaurant where the Independents have been doing most of their planning over the summer—where they're going to try to find a polite way to inform hopefully-Jehan about everything that's been happening tonight. The wait staff is used to the Independents by now, and have set Grant up in the back corner of the smaller section of the dining area, the corner that the Independents tend to fill with political talk at least one night out of the week if not two or three or more.

The waitress hands him his drink with a bright smile, a smile that Grant returns heartily even if he knows it's not really for him. Barry, Eric, Con and Cori tend to tip ridiculously well—he's pretty certain it's why the restaurant doesn't care that they've become Politics Central, despite the group not always being the quietest.

_Your beer tastes rather terrible._ Grantaire gives a brief, unhappy shudder.

_That's because it's cheap and weak. We need to not be drunk if having this conversation is going to be any use to us._ Grant takes another drink. _We can have something better later, assuming we don't die of embarrassment first. I promise I do know what good alcohol tastes like._

_If you didn't, I do. I'm sure it hasn't changed all that much._ Grantaire causes their eyes to flick about the dimly-lit restaurant, taking in the decorations on the wall—old movie posters, paintings, funny local street signs. _Your world is very strange, Grant._

_Strange. Funny. Sometimes terrible._ Grant shrugs. _Not that different from your world, really, with the exception of indoor plumbing. And nuclear terror. And bird flu._

_But without cholera. Without a king._

_Still with an aristocracy. We just make reality TV shows about them now and call them by different names._ Grant narrows his eyes._ And you're just arguing for the sake of arguing, aren't you?_

_Perhaps. In some ways. It's fun debating with myself. Though I do frequently find this world an improvement over mine._ A note of fond, loving enthusiasm enters Grantaire's thoughts, a feeling that only ever means he's thinking of one thing. _And the best part of my world is still here, trying to improve yours._

A knot of hope and trepidation forms in Grant's stomach, and all he can do is nod.

"Hey there, Grant." Jona slides into the chair on Grant's left side. "Having fun with yourself?"

"Careful with your wording, Jona." Lyle slides in on Grant's other side, a grin on his face. "Though you did look like you were having quite the interesting conversation, Grant. Does it have any bearing on why you so desperately needed to see us alone?"

"I didn't sound desperate!" Grant gives Lyle an injured look. "I just said that I wanted some advice from you guys. On something important."

"We'll be happy to give you any advice we can." Smiling, Jona gives Grant's arm an affectionate shove. "You know that."

"Is it direly important, or can we get something to drink, too?" Lyle gestures at Grant's almost-empty beer glass.

"Order a drink." Grant shrugs, ducking his head. "I just need to talk with you about something before the others come."

Jona and Lyle share a look that Grant can't quite read, and both of them order drinks while Grant gets his refilled.

Jona frowns down at his once it's delivered. "Do you think anyone would mind if I started bringing my own glass to have filled?"

"Jona." There's fond exasperation in Lyle's voice as he shakes his head. "This is why Maria and I tell you not to watch any specials on the health network. If they're not getting you upset by getting things wrong, they're making you paranoid. We've been eating here for over a year. You haven't died yet—_I_ haven't died yet, or even gotten food poisoning. I'm sure their hygiene standards are fine."

Sighing, Jona takes a long drink. "At least alcohol is mildly antibacterial. Now, what was it that you needed to talk about, Grant?"

"I…" Grant can feel his face heating as he tries to figure out how to edge into this topic. "I need to talk to you about Eric."

All hint of levity immediately vanishes from Jona's face, and he leans a little bit closer to Grant, his voice dropping. "Is he all right? Did something happen with the shadow?"

"No." Shaking his head, Grant studies his refilled glass intently. "He hasn't seen the shadow in a few days. It's just he… well… he asked me out. I think."

Jona continues to stare at him, expression blank, for several seconds. "Could you… repeat that? I don't think I heard that right."

"Eric asked me out. Sort of." Grant can feel his cheeks burning. "And I don't know what to do about it."

"Oh. Oh boy." Jona looks like Grant just told him that the sky's green, with pictorial evidence to back it up.

Lyle finally speaks, sounding curious rather than unperturbed. "When you say that Eric _sort of_ asked you out, what do you mean?"

"I mean that we were having this heart to heart about… lots of things, and then he asked me if I was interested in anything… physical with him, and said that if I was I should tell him and he might be open to… experimenting." The words come out in a rush, a few of them higher-pitched than he intended. Grant's not sure if it makes it better or worse that he knows Jona and Lyle are in a relationship.

_The fact that it's Joly and Bossuet makes it better. They're good men—good friends. There aren't that many people I would talk about these topics openly with._ Grantaire seems less distressed by the conversation, which Grant doesn't think is fair.

Frowning down at his drink, Grant directs his thoughts inward. _Why are you not worried about this?_

_Because I don't have to make the decision._ Grantaire's mental voice is gentle. _I'm dead, remember? I died with him. I gave him everything I could. I'd really prefer not to be along for the ride if we're going to disappoint him again, but it's still your life rather than mine right now._

Jona's voice is slow, his tone hesitant. "I suppose, then, the question's what do _you _want to do. _Are_ you interested in something physical with Eric?"

Grant gives Jona a hard look. "I'm not going to answer that. Not to the guy who's been teasing me for the last twelve months about being in love with Eric."

Lyle snorts and takes a drink. "Then this is going to be a very short conversation. Because that's really the heart of the matter, isn't it?"

"No, it's not. There's a lot more things involved in it than that!" Grant scowls down at his drink again. "Like… why would he make an offer like that?"

"Because he wanted to?" Jona shrugs. "If you want to know why Eric's doing anything, you're going to have to ask Eric. If you want to talk about what _you_ want to do and help sort your thoughts into order, then we can help."

"I can't ask Eric anything more. He doesn't respond to these things right!" Covering his eyes with one hand, Grant sighs. "When he asked me out, he just… did it. Just like that. Not even in normal words, not asking me out, he literally just asked me if I was interested in screwing him. 'Do you want something physical with me', I mean… and he wasn't upset about it in the least. Not embarrassed, not nervous, just… that. How are you supposed to respond to something like that?"

Lyle chuckles, a low, amused sound. "That actually sounds pretty much perfect. If Eric or Enjolras were going to ask someone out, I can definitely see them doing it like that."

Grant groans, allowing his head to sink down to the table. "I don't know what to do."

"First things first." Jona pats Grant's shoulder. "Do you want to date Eric? Are you physically attracted to him?"

Grant allows his head to fall to the side and slits his eyes open to peer up at Jona. "Have you looked at him?"

Jona shrugs. "You might be straight as an arrow, no Kinsey scale wavering, not interested because he's a guy."

"Again. Have you _looked_ at him?" Grant can feel a smile tugging at his lips. "I think he looks enough like a girl that the other way might be more of a problem—standard masculinity is not exactly his selling point."

"Except he has the charisma and force of will and fighting prowess that usually gets associated with masculinity." Lyle grins, completely unapologetic. "He's a rather beautiful conundrum for anyone's sexuality, I suppose. But the only one that matters here is _you_."

Closing his eyes again, Grant draws a deep breath. "Anything he would want, I'll try to do. I just… I'm so lucky to have what I have with him. The last few days have been wonderful. What if I say that I want something more and it all blows up in my face?"

"That's a risk you take in any relationship." Lyle's smile has a very fond edge to it as his gaze moves to Jona. "No matter how conventional or unconventional, no matter whether it's platonic or romantic, as soon as you care about someone and make it known you risk getting hurt. It's a part of loving someone."

"And it's Eric. This is one point where his asexuality is probably going to work in your favor." Jona raises one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Romance and friendship have a huge overlap anyway, a lot more than society likes to admit with talk of romance being 'more', but especially for Eric I think the two being close to synonymous is very true. You'll have the same troubles with him if you're his boyfriend that you'll have if you're his friend—him getting exasperated with your drinking, with your cynicism, with your disregard for the things that he finds important."

"Not all the things he finds important." Grant straightens, cheeks burning again. "And I've done better, the last few days. I've been useful. It's just… hard for me."

_It's always hard for us._ Grantaire's voice is quiet acceptance, a calm peace amidst the storm of Grant's own emotions. _But we stood with him. We died with him. I think… maybe… we can do this, Grant, if we really try._

Grant blinks, surprised. _What happened to 'I'm dead, this is your decision'?_

_You're asking for advice._ Grantaire gives a mental shrug. _And if this does work out, I benefit as well. Though… you'll make sure Enjolras is all right with this, yes?_

_Yes. Of course. I'd never intentionally do anything to hurt him. You know that. Hurting him would include driving a wedge between him and Enjolras._

"Is Grantaire all right with the possibility?" Lyle's voice drops and he switches to French. "Do you need to talk as well, my friend?"

"No." Grantaire slides forward long enough to give a shrug and a smile. "I'm fine with whatever he decides, so long as it's something Enjolras wants. I… have always been very fond of Enjolras."

Joly laughs. "And that may be the biggest understatement ever spoken. If you and Grant are interested and Enjolras offered… there's no harm in trying, is there?"

"Oh, there could be a lot of harm." Grantaire steps back again, allowing Grant to take over. "We could fuck something up irreparably, and lose what we have with him. He could decide he actually has some aesthetic taste in partners later, assuming he actually enjoys the whole… physical thing, and choose someone more at his level, abandoning me. He could—"

"Be quite capable of making up his own mind about who he wants to date." Lyle's voice cuts through Grant's rambling with practiced ease. "It's Eric, remember? Up-front. Honest. If things aren't working out between the two of you, I think he'd be the first to admit it, and I don't think he'd abandon your friendship because a romance fell through. Plus, it could be that things don't work out not because of you but because of him. He's been identifying as asexual for as long as I've known him. He might try a romance and find that it doesn't work for him—that he's uncomfortable with anything physical."

"He actually warned me about that." Pursing his lips, Grant finishes the rest of his drink. "That it would be an experiment for him, and that it might not work out. I think… I'd be all right with that. Because at least then we could just go back to status quo, and I'd know it wasn't because of me."

"Trying something with him would be a risk, Grant." Jona's hand covers his, squeezing gently. "There's always risk in change, but I think if it's something you're interested in, something _you_ want, then you should go for it. Don't try to think about what he wants. Don't try to think about all the ways it could go wrong. Think about what would happen if it goes right, and if _that's_ what you want."

Does he want to be tied to Eric as a romantic partner? Does he want to be involved in a homosexual relationship, with all the baggage and cultural issues that go with it? Does he want to have to deal with the fact that his romantic partner apparently has a sex drive that could only be described, size-wise, in terms usually reserved for subatomic particles?

Does he want to wake up next to Eric every morning, Eric's arm draped across him, without needing a monster to make it a necessity?

Does he want to try to be someone _worthy_ of being tied that closely to Eric?

Does he want to strive to be someone that Eric will look for in the crowd, will turn to, will be honored to introduce to others as _his_? His boyfriend? His lover?

Maybe someday, if they don't all get their souls eaten by shadow-monsters or Eric doesn't decide he hates him or the idea and a thousand other things don't go wrong, his _husband_?

"It's so damn scary." Grant blinks quickly, swiping at his suspiciously moist eyes, trying to keep his voice from breaking. "Because it's _him_, it's so damn scary."

"If you don't want to, if you're not ready for any reason, then don't." Lyle's hand settles on Grant's shoulder. "But don't talk yourself out of something you want because you're afraid, either. Having a romantic partner—or partners—that you love, that you can turn to… if it's something that you want, that you need, it makes the world a hell of a lot brighter and easier to deal with."

Jona and Lyle's eyes meet, the two men smiling at each other, and Grant suddenly finds laughter building up in his chest. Shaking his head, he leans back in his chair. "You two are ridiculous and adorable, you know? I don't know how I managed to miss the signs before."

"We're just that talented." Jona grins. "But yeah, basically what he said. If you want it, if he offered, try it. Don't do anything just because you think _he_ wants it, and don't try to underestimate—or _over_estimate—how hard it will be, but… you've got us. You've got Eric, as a friend, and I don't see that changing anytime soon. You've got the rest of the Independents. No matter what you try or what happens, it's going to be all right."

"That's asking a pretty tall order of the universe." Grant raises his almost-empty glass with a grin. "But I'll still drink to it."

Two glasses clink against his.

"Have you thought about… I mean…" Lyle blushes, just slightly.

"Do you know _how_ to go about having sex with another guy?" Jona speaks frankly, though thankfully quietly. "Because it's not quite as all-pervasive as heterosexual intercourse in popular culture, and though I'm sure you could figure it out there are some things that I would suggest not trying and some things that—"

"Jona." Grant feels like his face is on fire as he puts his hand over Jona's mouth. "I've still been trying to decide if I want to _kiss_ him. This conversation can wait for later, if it's going to happen at all. Because I do know how to use the Internet to look things up, you know. I don't need my best friends to give me a blow by blow."

Jona's eyes widen.

"Oh, careful what you say." Lyle's grinning ear to ear. "The Internet is a great place to get ideas, but they're not always good ideas. Having a plan for when and if things get that far is probably wise, though, because if you leave it to Eric's devices he'll probably ask Cori."

"You don't think… he would… I mean…" Grant's voice trails off as he pictures Cori's grinning face, imagines the energetic man's absolute delight as Cori tries to educate Eric. "Well. Cori would probably be just as good a font of ideas as the Internet."

Jona sighs. "Probably a safer font of ideas."

Lyle raises one eyebrow.

"Maybe." Jona sighs again. "I think I need another drink. My liver will have to suffer for my mental stability right now."

Raising his hand to call the waitress back to them, Grant nods.

This sounds like a perfectly good idea to him.

XXX

Erin pauses outside the door to her parent's apartment.

It's strange how living away from them for just three days has managed to change the way she thinks. It doesn't feel like home anymore. It doesn't feel like _her_ apartment. Mark's place has become her place, Mark and Cori an easy duo to live with, the shadow and the Independents the main things she worries about rather than her father or her father's various businesses.

Her parents might be angry. She wouldn't blame them if they were, really.

She also finds that she wouldn't care too much. She _likes_ where she is right now, crazy shadow monsters and ridiculously hopeful politics be damned. Even now, after Cosette's apparent reappearance, she's happier than she has been in a long time. At least Mark came back to her, _talked_ to her, didn't just disappear with the other girl. At least he's invited her to meet with him and Cosette.

At least she'll still have Cori to talk to, even if everything else blows up in her face just like it did in Eponine's.

If her father and mother can't appreciate that…

"Erin."

Gary's voice comes from right beside her, and Erin turns with a start, a grin breaking over her face. "Gary! Y' little brat, where've you been?"

"'Round." Gary grins, hands in his pockets, hair wild around his face. "Where've _you_ been? Tried lookin' for you a few times, since I heard y' wanted t' see me, but you haven' been home."

"I've been staying with some friends." Erin finds herself smiling, thinking on the Independents and Mark. "How've you been?"

Gary hesitates, just for a moment. "Been fine."

Leaning down so that they're at eye level, Erin studies her little brother. She notices the dark circles around his eyes, the way his gaze darts from side to side, and her heart clenches hard as her right hand rises to press against the slowly fading bruise on her chest. "Gary, there's something important I need to talk with you about. All right?"

"Sure. Figured y' wanted to ask somethin', since you were lookin' for me." Gary stares straight back at her, open curiosity in his expression.

Reaching out to take his hands in hers, Erin forces herself not to squeeze them too tightly. "Have you been havin' any nightmares?"

"Nightmares?" Gary laughs, but it's an uneasy sound and his eyes dart first left and then right. "Why're you interested in dreams?"

"It's important, Gary." Erin waits until his body stills, his eyes finding hers again. "Have you been having nightmares, and if you have, is there a monster in them? A shadow-creature, with red eyes and claws like a cat?"

She knows before he says anything. She knows from the way his face pales and his hands start shaking.

She knows, and cold fury rises in her chest, overtakes the ache of old wounds. How dare it. How dare the monster attack Gary, attack a _child_, attack her _brother_, attack the one person in her family who least deserves it.

"How d' you…" Gary's voice is a strangled whisper, and he pulls back, trying to skitter away from her.

"I know because it's attacked me, too." Erin tightens her hold on his hands, trying to keep him from running. "Gary, I know it sounds crazy, but that shadow-thing is real, it's a real monster, and it—"

"'_s not real!_" Gary's shout echoes up and down the hallway, and he rips his hands free from hers and darts back a handful of steps, pale face twisted in a rictus of denial. "'s jus' a stupid dream, didn' die like that, _I didn'—_"

He shifts to French mid-sentence and then pauses, somehow managing to go even paler. Shaking his head, he backs away from her.

"Gary. Gary, it's all right." She reaches out to him, but he doesn't take her hand. Why should he? She's never been able to protect him from their parents, from their neighborhood, from their world; why should he trust her when she tells him that the soul-eating monster is all right? Especially when she probably just made things a thousand times worse, pulling Gavroche to the fore without giving him any warning. "Gavroche, it's all right. Gary. Please."

He pauses at the name Gavroche, then abruptly turns and flees back down the stairs and out of sight.

Erin's sprinting after him before she thinks about it.

_Our brother?_ Eponine's voice is a quiet whisper, uncertain. _He was mine as well as yours?_

_Yes._ Erin darts down the stairs two and three at a time, heedless to the way the blood pounds in her head and her vision wavers as her heart tries to circulate too little blood too quickly to keep up with what she's asking her body to do. _He's the only sibling I have left. My sister died._

_Azelma…_ Eponine's thoughts take on a dark, moody cast as she rips the knowledge of what happened to her sister from Erin's mind.

Blood on the street, blood on her hands, her father urging her to run, to move, her mother screaming when they told her, and it wasn't supposed to happen that way, there weren't supposed to be guns involved, it was supposed to be _safe_—

_Never safe._ Eponine's voice is soft, and she pulls back as Erin draws in a shuddering, sobbing breath. _I'm sorry. That wasn't for me to take. If we're going to find our brother, though, we need to keep running._

_I wouldn't have stopped if you hadn't done that._ Erin bares her teeth as she straightens and starts moving again. _Never do that again. I won't rifle through your life; have the same courtesy with mine._

_You care for Gary; I did what I could for Azelma, though it was precious little._ It's the last Eponine says, and Erin doesn't push her. They've been wary allies so far, and she'd prefer to keep it that way.

Pushing past Mark as he tries to enter the stairwell, heedless to his questions or concerns, Erin focuses on keeping up with her ridiculously fast little brother.

Everything else can wait until she's made sure that he's all right.

XXX

Gavroche doesn't know where he is.

That shouldn't be possible. He knows his city. He knows every nook and cranny in it, because that's how he keeps himself safe and fed and warm.

Except he doesn't know anything about this place. He doesn't understand the cars that go zooming by, large, angry, noisy, smelly, frightening.

Except he has a word for what they are, _car_.

He doesn't understand the way the city smells, the stench of people replaced by the stench of gasoline and coal burning.

Except he knows the word _gasoline,_ knows the word _smog_.

He doesn't know where he's going, but his feet are carrying him somewhere.

_Current nest. Safe place._ The words are a garbled mess of fear and terror, in a language that Gavroche understands though he's never heard it before. _Figure it out there. Hide. Safe._

Feet slowing, Gavroche takes a longer look around himself, panting with exertion. "Can you hear me?"

The string of words and ideas that had been flowing through his mind slows, lessens, takes on more coherency. _Who're you?_

"Gavroche." Looking around, Gavroche crosses his arms over his chest. Though there are other people about, none of them pay him the slightest bit of attention. "Where're you?"

_I think… you're in my body._ A sense of frustrated anger surges through Gavroche as the other voice speaks. _You can't have my body!_

"Didn' take it. Wouldn' even know how t' go about takin' a body. Looks mostly like my body, anyway." Gavroche frowns down at his shirt and at the trousers that end at his knees. "Not dressed like it, though. Y'say it's yours?"

_Yes._ The other boy's voice is a bottle of barely-contained rage. _And I want it back._

He doesn't know how it happens. He just… relaxes, allows the other boy's anger to push past him, and suddenly he is no longer the one in control of their actions.

"Gary! Gary, wait." Erin's voice finally registers, and Gary turns slowly around to face her.

Erin's face is pale and sweaty, and though part of it can be explained by the autumn heat not all of it can. Staggering to a halt in front of him, she settles down on her heels and gasps for a moment.

Kneeling down in front of her, Gary studies his sister. "Erin? Y' all right?"

"I… ask… you that." Erin draws a deep breath and lets it out in a deeper sigh. "I wanted to ask you that."

_We're all right._ Gavroche's voice is confused but not frightened. _I think. Maybe._

"Um…" Gary tries to smile and succeeds, though it's a little shakier than he would have liked. "I think… I'm all right. Though there's… I don' know, sis, I don' know how to explain this…"

"His name is Gavroche." Erin straightens, expression suddenly grim. "And it's all right that you're hearing him. It's all right to be nice to him—to work with him. It'll be better that way, in the long run. Mine is named Eponine, if that makes you feel better at all."

It does, in a way. It means he's not crazy. It means Erin has some answers for him.

On the other hand…

"Y' said that monster's real." Gary shudders, and he can feel Gavroche recoil from the memories of the beast as well.

"It is. It's a long story." Erin's breathing has finally slowed to something approaching normal. "Where've you been stayin', little brother? Somewhere safe we can talk for a little bit? 'Cause otherwise we could go back to Mark's place."

"No." Shaking his head, Gary sticks out his tongue. "I don' want t' owe your weird college-boy anythin'. I've got a place I've been stayin'. It's a nice little house, got foreclosed a few months ago, no one's been botherin' with it."

"All right. Take me there, and I'll explain what I can." Erin winces, just slightly, her right hand rising to press at her chest between her breasts. "Though I can't guarantee you're goin' t' like the explanation."

"I'm goin' t' like it better than not knowin' what's goin' on." Shrugging, Gary reaches out and takes Erin's hand in his. She follows him without protest.

_This should be interesting._ Gavroche is calm again, the panic that had driven them to run faded away as though it had never been. _I've never heard o' anythin' like this._

Gary finds himself nodding in agreement.

He may not be sure that he _likes_ what's going on, but it's certainly _interesting_.

XXX

"And I think that bring you up to date."

Jean finally manages to blink, breaking eye contact with Eric. Dropping his eyes to his plate of half-eaten spaghetti, he tries to process everything that he's been told.

The first part of dinner had been fun and fascinating, a discussion of politics and activism that had left him pleasantly overwhelmed but eager to participate. There had been a tense undercurrent to the entire group that had grown as the evening continued, though, an undercurrent that had seemed to worsen every time he spoke.

Eventually, after the fourth or fifth time the others had slipped into a French dialect all their own and started talking about something having to do with a Republic and a poet only to stop short when they realized he could understand them, Eric had set down his fork and declared that enough was enough and it was time to make things clear.

Jean's not sure things are clearer now, but he's certainly got a fascinating story to mull over. "And you think that I'm _your_ Jean. Jean Prouvaire. You think I was also at the barricades with you."

"I do." Eric continues to stare straight into him, those blue eyes certain and unapologetic. "Enjolras is almost certain. The others are, as well. Courfeyrac's been certain since your meeting this afternoon. We'll understand if you think it's crazy. We'll understand if you want to walk away. But we couldn't meet you and not give you what information we have, not if it could give you any protection or comfort at all."

"I… don't think you're crazy." He should, probably. The story that they've told him is utterly fantastical, utterly impossible… and yet…

He's always been interested in the fantastical. He's always been fascinated by gods and myths and theories of life after death—by the concept of reincarnation, of heaven, of hell, of everything in between. If it could actually be real… if he might actually be involved in something…

And there is something strange about his connection to these men. He's comfortable with them, yes, but more than that, he feels like he _knows_ them. They're a large group, nine others at the table, and he's not sure he could get all of their names right but he could tell you their personalities and quirks without hesitancy.

He expected Cori to be the one who invaded personal space, who touched everyone with abandon and a smile and a vivacious good cheer that it was impossible not to try to return.

He expected Eric to be the one to tell him about the mystery, to explain what's going on, to be silent but content until he was needed.

He expected Con to sit between Eric and Cori, debating with the one, silently communicating with the other, watching Jean himself with an intensity that could have intimidating if Jean didn't feel there was joy mixed in with the trepidation.

He expected Grant to be the one drinking the most, watching Eric, adding rambling commentary to everyone else's conversations.

He expected _all _of them, could predict how they would react within minutes of meeting them, and apparently their names are coming more easily to him than he expected.

A name is just a shorthand way for the mind to grasp a group of characteristics, though, and it's always easiest to name and categorize those things that are intimately familiar to you.

Two hundred years worth of familiar?

Perhaps.

Jean's eyes scan over the table. "You're all quite certain that the men you had been before, the Amis, died in 1832."

Grave nods, uncomfortable shrugs, simple vocal affirmations, the raising of glasses, everyone has a slightly different way of answering in the affirmative, but they all do.

"And now we're here." Jean studies his plate again for a moment, trying to decide what line of questions he wants to pursue first. "And you can remember them—you can _hear_ them, talk to them as separate personalities?"

"You can talk to us, if you'd like." The voice is Cori's, but the words are in French, that same fond tone that Jean had noticed when Cori said his name before. "It may be hard to tell the difference unless you know what you're looking for, though—or unless you want to ask us about France in 1832. Same souls and all. We're quite similar to our reincarnates in many respects."

"If I'm one of you…" Jean switches the conversation back to Enlgish. Staring into Cori's eyes, he sees no evidence of a lie, no evidence of a threat. "Why don't I remember?"

"The shadow." Con's hands twine together and he rests his chin on them, also meeting Jean's gaze evenly. "When I met Eric—when all of us met each other—there was a sense of… familiarity, but it wasn't until the shadow had been toying with us in dreams for months that we were really able to talk with and properly interact with our past selves. We've got a few hypotheses about that—perhaps it's a matter of giving our minds time to adjust, to be able to _accommodate_ the addition of another personality without splintering. Or perhaps it's a matter of them gaining back enough strength and sense of self to be able to carry it into the waking world—to make us notice them, because most people aren't very keen on talking to voices in their heads or acknowledging that they exist. The shadow seems to be the thing that's called them forth, though."

"And since I haven't seen the shadow… that I know of… which would fit with the shadow's statement that you were still missing one…" Letting out a long, slow breath, Jean nods. "So it would make sense for me not to have Jehan talking to me yet."

"As much as any of this makes sense." Barry has his head resting on one hand, both elbows on the table. "You're taking this rather well, you know. I think most sane people would have started running by now."

"Maybe I'm not sane." Jean grins, though it fades after a moment. He's been accused of insanity of one form or another too many times for him to thoroughly enjoy the joke, even among these people. "I've always been fascinated by the supernatural, by the possibilities of what could be. It makes for good stories. It makes for interesting conversations. Until you start asking me to commit suicide, give you all my worldly possessions, or cut off all contact with people outside the group, I see no reason to doubt or disbelieve you."

"We're not a cult." A slight, bemused smile pulls at the corners of Eric's mouth. "We won't try to tell you who you can and can't associate with. If you want to stay with us, you're certainly welcome. If you don't, if you want to leave and put this out of your mind until—_if_—the shadow comes after you—"

"I'm staying." Jean can feel his face heating slightly. "I mean, I'm staying involved with you guys, not that I'm moving in to join your sleepover groups. If this is true, I want to be involved, whether I'm Jehan or not, whether I get targeted or not. I want to try to help you guys with this… psychic vampire, whatever it is."

Eric's head tilts just slightly to the side. "Psychic vampire?"

"A creature that feeds off of emotions." Tilting his head to first one side and then the other, Jean sorts out the most important information. "There's all sorts of creatures like that in mythology—and in modern sci-fi and fantasy. At one end of the spectrum I suppose you could say there's incubi, succubi, demons like that which feed off of the energy of the soul. But there's lots of smaller or less-common entities described that could also fit the description—something that takes energy from other beings, often associated with specific emotions, and uses that either to live or to perform other tasks. Like some poltergeist theories say that poltergeists are ghosts attracted to the energy from adolescents, using that energy to wreak mayhem when the adolescents are upset."

"So the shadow would be a psychic vampire that feeds on negative emotions." Con's eyes narrow as he speaks, a wolf on the hunt. "A creature that feeds on pain, on despair, on hopelessness, on grief. A creature that, ultimately, intends to devour the soul of its victims. I don't suppose you know any ways to kill creatures like this?"

Jean shrugs. "Depends on the mythos. You could try an exorcism, I suppose. Or starving it out."

"It seems to have been around for two hundred years." Cori shakes his head. "Plus, with the dreams it manages to craft… I don't think starving it out's going to be much of an option."

"You said you've hurt it." Turning his gaze back to Eric, Jean meets those deep blue eyes, watching as they turn from quiet contemplation to hard steel as soon as the word _hurt_ leaves Jean's mouth. "You said you had a flaming sword?"

Eric simply nods.

Jean finds himself chewing on his lower lip again and forces himself to stop. "You don't know how you ended up with the sword?"

A small, elegant shrug is Eric's first answer. When Jean continues to stare at him, he sighs and shakes his head. "I needed a weapon to hurt it. Enjolras and I were very determined we were going to hurt it—that we were going to kill it. And then… the sword was there, in my hand. The creature didn't seem to like being stabbed with it."

"Determination. Certainty." Jean hesitates, blushing hard again. He's going out on a limb a bit, with this next guess, trusting in these strange instincts and almost-remembrances of who these people are. "Protectiveness?"

After a bare second Eric nods again, a small, economical movement. "I—we—wouldn't let it hurt the others like it was trying to hurt me. And we wouldn't let it continue to defile the barricade."

"The antithesis of what you said it likes to feed on—what it's trying to engender in you." Excitement courses through his veins as Jean stares around the table. "So maybe rather than starving it out, hitting it with the _opposite _of what it is. Craft a weapon that you can use out of everything it's trying to take away from you, and strike with that."

"Sounds simple enough when you say it that way, but how do you _make_ a weapon in the dreams?" Jona's tone is genuinely questioning rather than dismissive.

Eric shrugs. "You simply need it to be there."

"Like lucid dreaming." Grinning, Jean toys with the spaghetti and sauce on his plate. "Twisting the dream to your liking—willing it to be different than it is without accidentally waking yourself up."

"That… won't be as easy as it sounds." Grant's tone is dubious. "Trying to reach our past selves is hard sometimes, and the dreams feel really damn real. They _hurt_. Add in that thing toying with us the whole time, and how chaotic they tend to be…"

Lyle's hand falls gently on Grant's shoulder. "We won't know if it's possible or not until we try. Besides, Enjolras has managed to get his weapon twice now. Maybe if we get it once, it'll be easier subsequent times."

"I think…" Eric frowns, eyes closing for a few seconds. "Part of it is having _both_ of us in agreement on it. Both times we've managed to get our sword, it's been both of us, him and me, bent on doing whatever's necessary to see the beast dead."

Con nods slowly. "That would explain why none of us had managed to threaten it before—we couldn't very well bend our whole will and soul on doing something that one consciousness didn't realize was real."

They're talking about ways to kill a vampiric entity that devours souls.

They're talking about souls, reincarnation, lucid dreaming, topics that have fascinated Jean for years.

They were talking about politics not twenty minutes before, politics that he can give his whole-hearted approval to, politics that would create a world where he's accepted, where he doesn't have to be afraid, where he can simply be _himself_.

It's a terrible thing to think, probably, because these men are in danger of losing their souls, but college is far better than Jean had even imagined it could be.

"Hey." Barry's hand shoves gently at his shoulder, a comradely movement. "You look like you're just about to cry. Everything all right?"

Blinking, Jean nods in eager enthusiasm. "As long as you guys don't get your souls eaten, everything's great. Though… is it wrong of me to want to meet him? To want Jehan to wake?"

"No." Barry smiles, sliding into French. "It's very, very you. Though I'd prefer you find a way to wake him that doesn't involve that beast stalking you."

Maria snorts. "Yeah, if I figure that one out I'll share the trick with you, Jean. Assuming I really am Musichetta and you are their much-loved poet."

Jean smiles at the woman. "Same back at you."

Silence descends on the table, but it's a comfortable, easy silence as everyone finishes their meals and drinks.

"Hey." Jean purses his lips as he contemplates the last of his food. "Do any of you guys remember any other past lives?"

A quiet murmur of negation fills their corner of the restaurant.

"I mean…" Jean raises his eyes to look around the circle. "If we died in 1832… what happened between then and now? Where did our souls go? Did we have… other lives?"

"I've been thinking about that." Con smiles, a self-deprecating grin. "Which I'm sure surprises none of the others. I suppose there's three options. It could be that souls, being something completely outside the established realms of science, don't follow normal physical laws. Perhaps now is the logical time for us to come back rather than in 1832. Or perhaps there's something like a heaven or hell or purgatory—a place that souls rest, and that's where we were between then and now. Or… maybe there were other lives between then and now, lives that we still can't remember."

"Which would bring up the question of why." Jean finds his fingers twirling his fork over and over and forces them to still. "For all your theories, it would bring up the question of why. Why just 1832 and now? If we have been back before now, why don't we remember what came between? I mean… I suppose it's possible that we just went from then to now. We do all look about the same age…"

A notebook appears in front of Con as if by magic. "Birthdays are something that's easy to compare. We should have a list for the Independents, anyway, so that no one gets forgotten."

They're not exactly the same. That's clear as soon as two birthdays are given. They're spread across five months, but Jean can't help but feel that there's a pattern in the dates, somewhere, a pattern that he can't quite grasp.

Con sees it, though. He knows that Con sees it as the man gently, carefully, sets his pen down.

"Con?" Cori manages to make Con's name into a question all on its own.

"They're all two weeks apart—Maria as the oldest, Eric as the youngest, but they're all two weeks apart." Con's hand trails down the page. "There are two exceptions—Finny's a day late, Eric's a day early, but that's it. Two weeks apart. Why—"

Eric doesn't say anything. He simply stands, in one fluid, quick movement, and darts toward the door of the restaurant, leaving stunned silence in his wake.

XXX

The humid, hot late summer air slams into him as soon as he opens the door, stripping away the artificial coolness of the air conditioning, and his body instinctively draws back, recoiling.

Another threat. Something else, something else preventing escape, and he _needs_ to escape, he needs to find them a way out of this.

He's managed to stagger to the wall, the sun-baked bricks supporting his weight, but he doesn't know how and he doesn't know what to do now.

He can't handle another threat. Not right now. Not when his mind is drowning in words, in languages, in fragments of thoughts that he can't understand.

(_—two weeks two weeks it always ends after two weeks he figures it out eventually though they try to keep it from them, no natural light patterns, too light or too dark, but the staff changes with the days and nights and it gives him something to hold to, something to time things against, some control of the situation—_)

_Deep breath, Eric._ Enjolras' voice is a lifeline, something steady and familiar in the storm, and Eric clings to it desperately. _Deep breaths—in, out, in, out._

It shouldn't be so hard to breathe. It shouldn't be so hard to think—so _painful_ to think, to try to ignore or drown out the sense of _others_ in his mind.

_I know._ Enjolras' voice is sympathetic, though coating a steel-hard determination that Eric will manage this. He will breathe, and he will straighten, and he will calm the storm.

He will do it, because he did it before. When Enjolras faced this, this overwhelming loss of a sense of self, this painful split waiting to happen, Eric quieted the voices. Eric pulled them through this once, and they will pull through it again.

Forcing his lungs to listen to him, to stop attempting to hyperventilate, Eric draws a long, shuddering breath and lets it out in something that doesn't quite sound like a sob.

_That's it._ Enjolras' determination mimics Eric's own, something to resonate with, something to hold to.

The next breath comes easier, and the next even easier. The panic fades with each breath, and he forces himself to straighten. _Thank you, Enjolras._

_We're in this together, Eric. Now, what exactly is _this_?_

_I think… Jean's right. We _have_ had lives between then and now._ Eric swallows, hard. _I think… they're all there. All the permutations of us, they're etched onto our soul. It's just that you and me are the only ones awake right now._

_And I think it would be a very good idea if we kept it that way._ There's grim determination in Enjolras' voice still. _It hurts, Eric, whenever they try to wake. I don't know if we would survive it._

_Not all at once, we wouldn't._ Eric shudders. _Getting you and me balanced has been hard enough. I don't know how many versions of us there've been, but I think it would be awfully crowded in here with all of us._

Too crowded. Too crowded to think, too crowded to breathe, too crowded to _explain_, and without explanation there is battle. Without explanation there is pain and splitting and emptiness.

_Why did it happen?_ Contemplation replaces determination as the dominant emotion in Enjolras' voice. _Why now, why then?_

_I don't know._ Shivering despite the humid warmth, Eric crosses his arms over his chest. _I think… it's the wound. I think, when we get too close to that, this is what happens._

_But _why_?_ Enjolras continues to worry at the question, a wolf with a bone. _Does that mean… that the wound isn't something the shadow gave us? Is it… something that the beast is exploiting, rather than something it made?_

"Eric?" Con's voice is quiet, and Eric turns to find the other man standing right behind him, the restaurant door closed to his right. The expression on Con's face is one of blatant fear, though his tone is gentle and soothing. "Enjolras?"

"We're all right." Eric swallows again, trying to clear his throat and get his voice not to sound quite so hoarse. "Sorry. I just… needed some air."

Con's expression changes, into a look that manages to mix exasperated and reproving with affection. "Right. Some air."

"I did." Eric shrugs. "I think I just had a panic attack. I couldn't be somewhere enclosed. The _reason_ I just had a panic attack… Enjolras and I are still working on that."

Nodding, slowly, Con relaxes. Reaching into his back pocket, he holds out a napkin. "Here."

Eric stares at the proffered object.

"You're bleeding." Con's voice is gentle as he takes another step forward, his voice falling in volume. "From your nose, just a little bit, nothing like last time, but you might want to clean it up before we go back inside."

"Thanks." Eric takes the napkin and swipes at his face, glaring at the red blood that spreads across the white napkin. He's getting really tired of bleeding like this.

"Can you talk about it?" Touching Eric's shoulder, gently, Con steers them away from the restaurant door. Switching to French, he studies the others walking down the street. "In whichever language you prefer, but this gives us at least a bit more privacy."

Enjolras slides forward, and Eric allows himself to relax just a bit as the other man takes over the task of making sure their body and soul behave. "I don't know if it's something easily explained, Combeferre, and I don't know how easily I'll fall back into… it."

"It." Combeferre raises both eyebrows. "The last thing you referred to as 'it' was that soul wound of yours. Is that still causing you problems?"

"Yes." Enjolras can't suppress a shudder, and he closes his eyes for a moment, drawing a handful of deep, even breaths. The only ones in his head are him and Eric; the only lives they have to contemplate are his and Eric's. There is no danger here, no threat, aside from that which they bring upon themselves, and he will not do this to his friends.

Combeferre's arm slides across his shoulders, a comforting weight, and Enjolras leans into the touch.

Opening his eyes again, he smiles at his friend. "Forgive me. It's… difficult, keeping the pattern from repeating. Jehan is right. We lived before. I… almost remember. And when I do, Combeferre… they're so loud. It's so loud, so _painful_, so difficult to control—"

"Hush." Combeferre's arm tightens around him, pulls him into a full embrace. "If it hurts you that badly, Enjolras, stay away from it. We'll be careful in our words."

"It's not always this bad. Many times I can contemplate what happened without fear, without feeling anything, but there are times… there's…"

(—_blood dripping down his face—_)

(—_two weeks—_)

Eric once more forces himself to draw a shuddering breath as Enjolras fades back, returning control of their body to him. It helps, somehow, him being the one in control, because it's the way it's supposed to be. This is his world. He forces himself to focus on the feel of Con's shirt under his fingers, the press of summer around him, the sounds of cars on the street. He is _here_, and right here there is no immediate threat.

"Enjolras?" Combeferre's fingers press strands of escaped hair away from Eric's eyes. "Eric?"

"I'll be able to talk about it later, Con. I think. But not… not right now." Disentangling himself from Con's hold, Eric reaches up to feel at his face again. At least he didn't bleed this time.

"All right." Con nods, slowly. "We'll wait until you can talk about it, then. I think you should come back inside, though, as soon as you're feeling up to it. The others are worried about you."

"I know." Closing his eyes, Eric shakes his head. "I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't—"

"Eric." Con's hands land on both his shoulders, Con's eyes icy determination behind his glasses. "Do not ever apologize for being hurt. Do not ever imply that you being _hurt_ is something that shouldn't happen. It's not something you chose. You're not being weak. You're not a danger or a threat to our safety because you're _hurt_. You're our friend, and we want to help you. And the best thing you can do to make us feel better is _let_ us help you."

"I…" There's a part of him—a tired part, the part that's been worn down over the last four months, the part that's started to wonder if perhaps any of the shadow's taunts are true—that wants to argue. The larger part, though, accepts Con's words, and Eric can feel both himself and Enjolras relax, some of the pain and tension easing from them. "I believe you. I'll try very hard to listen to your undoubtedly sound advice. As much as I can, at least, given the situation and the soul-eating monster."

"Good." Con's relief is a palpable thing, and for a moment Eric's certain he's going to be hugged again. Instead Con's hands just tighten on his shoulders before releasing him. "So let's—"

"Con? Eric?" Mark's voice is hesitant but unmistakable, and both Eric and Con turn to him.

Eric smiles at Mark and Erin, standing side by side. "Marius, you're late."

Mark's expression shifts from puzzled to startled to vaguely horrified within the space of three seconds. "No. Eric, just… no. You are not allowed to quote the musical."

Eric's smile fades. "Why not?"

"Because… I mean… it's just…" Mark's hands flutter in a frustrated pantomime, though Eric's not sure what he's trying to pantomime. "It's just very strange."

Con sighs. "Telling him not to do it is likely just going to make him do it to you more. Besides which it's a very true statement. The two of you are over an hour late."

"Yeah… well…" Erin looks around, frowning before sighing in exasperation. "Gary! Stop playing with the dog. We're going to get dinner."

A rather scruffy boy, perhaps ten years old, turns from petting the head of a labrador that's hanging out a car window to stick his tongue out at Erin. Giving the dog one final pat, he turns and trots over to Erin, though, his hand finding hers in a proprietary grip as he stares up at Eric and Con.

Erin's gaze shifts from Eric to Con and back, and she straightens. "Eric, Con, this is my little brother, Gary. Your _others_ will recognize him as Gavroche. I've already told him what we know, and he remembers, like us. Speaks French, the whole nine yards."

"You were Enjolras." Gary speaks in English, though there's an accent to his words that might be Gavroche bleeding through. "I didn' ever manage to get your gun."

"It wouldn't have been much use to you by the time Enjolras was done." Eric finds his expression and his emotions oscillating between fond affection and dread. The boy was fierce and glorious when Enjolras knew him, as brave and worthy as any other man on the barricade, but watching the child die once was enough. "Enjolras wasn't terribly kind to his weapons. I'm fairly certain it wouldn't have fired even if we had rounds for it at the end."

"Pity." Gary's eyes shift to Con. "And you were Combeferre. The doctor with the box full o' weapons. You wouldn' give me a gun, either."

"And I won't give you one this time, not until you're older." The same hesitant affection and creeping dread that Eric feels is mimicked on Con's face. "Once you _are_ older, I'll take you out to a firing range and we can see how good your aim is."

Erin gives a brief, sharp laugh. "'is aim's good. Y'think I wouldn' make sure he knows how t' handle a gun?"

Gary grins. "Thanks, sis. Now, y' said they'd have food? That's why I agreed t' come, you know."

Eric gestures toward the door to the restaurant. "Let's go join the others. I'm sure they'll all be thrilled to meet you, Gary."

Watching the boy pull his sister through the doors, Mark trailing them like a confused puppy, Eric finds his smile fading.

They've found almost everyone who was associated with the barricade, now.

If the shadow stays true to its word, tonight should be an interesting night.

_A good opportunity to kill it?_ Enjolras' voice is calm, just a hint of humor to it.

_Yeah. Let's think of it like that._ Eric's smile returns as he takes in the rest of their group, the relief on their faces as they look at him, the joy and trepidation with which they greet Gary.

Tonight's going to be a good opportunity to kill the shadow.


	23. Part Twenty-Three: The Waiting Dark

**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing! Again, sorry for the delay. My beta and I are slowly getting back on track after some crazy real life stuff. We'll be trying to update "Belonging" on Wednesdays now and this over the weekend. This chapter has more Shadow in it, so the usual dark themes, blood and death warning applies. Also, just in case anyone wonders, the Amis did _not_ torture anyone at the barricades and I am well aware of that. (For DAmaratsu, I love your plot speculation! You hit quite a few things right.)

_Part Twenty-Three: The Waiting Dark_

The insurgents torture their captives.

They don't torture Javert. When he inquires about it, buying their latest victim a few seconds' respite, their leader simply states that Javert won't have the information they'll need before returning to calmly torturing the young soldier tied helpless before him.

The blond man's eyes never flicker. His hands never hesitate. He never flinches, not even when a spray of arterial blood slides across his face before spattering warm onto Javert's right hand.

"That was unnecessary." Javert keeps his voice calm, controlled, though helpless fury rolls through him in waves. "He knew nothing."

"I couldn't know that for sure." The blond man turns from his bloody work with a simple shrug. "I will do whatever is necessary to change the world, spy. Never forget that."

_Never forget, never forget what a monster he is._

The echoing, haunting whisper seems to come from the shadows as Javert stares into the young man's blue eyes. They're incongruous with his face, hard and cold but somehow glittering with a feverish madness nonetheless.

_This man will make the world burn._

The thought is so strong it almost seems to be another whisper, rolling from the edges of the room inward, and Javert can feel the hairs on his arms attempt to stand on end as he watches the traitor move slowly closer to him.

"I need information on their movements and strength." The young man reaches out with a hand that seems far too delicate for the strength that it has. "I had hoped I could get it from our more recent prisoners, as their information would be more accurate, but if you insist on offering yourself as an option I may be forced to accept it."

"I know nothing." A slight smile pulls at the corners of Javert's mouth as he stares into the depths of the young madman's blue eyes. "You may torture me all you like, but you'll be sorely disappointed."

Enjolras smiles in answer, a tight, predatory expression that makes his fine features into a terrible mask, like a child's face locked in death. "We'll see."

_He will make the world burn, and he will enjoy every moment of it._

For all his youth and his slightness of build, Enjolras is adept at torture. Javert knew that, having watched his handiwork, but that does nothing to help with the pain as the boy does everything in his power to extract information that Javert doesn't have.

Not that he would speak even if he knew.

These traitors need to be stopped, and they need to be stopped now.

Eventually the pain fades, though, the young man standing with an animal growl of frustration and stalking away. Javert blinks, surprised to still be alive, and tests his bonds. They hold, and he spits out a curse as well as a tooth and a mouthful of blood.

_Patience. Patience._ The shadows seem to writhe as the whisper finds its way to his ears. _First pain, then despair._

Javert struggles harder, but he quickly realizes there's no point and elects to lie still, instead. Time passes.

Hours pass.

Days pass, it seems, the light growing and fading and growing again, the sounds of battle outside coming in sporadic bursts.

He hates it. He hates every moment of it, helpless, bound, unable to interfere with what is happening or even to _know_ what is happening.

Perhaps that last is the worst, actually. To not know what is happening is to be blind, to be lost, and he doesn't like either sensation.

Eventually, though, another young man stumbles his way into the room where Javert is bound. Blood spatters his clothes. His hands drip red. His glasses are crooked on his nose, and the eyes behind them are haunted.

Pulling a knife with shaking fingers, he slices through the bonds, freeing Javert.

Eyeing the youth, Javert rubs at his wrists and ankles before forcing himself to his feet despite the pain it causes. "Freeing me does not absolve you of your crimes."

"Crimes?" The young man shakes his head. "You've no idea… no idea. Call what we've done by whatever name you want, but there will be no court judging us. The king is dead and Paris burns, Inspector."

Javert frowns down at the young man slumped on the ground, then shakes his head. His own eyes will give him more information than anything the traitor might say.

The rebel didn't lie. Paris does burn. Javert's eyes sting and smart as he emergences onto the street. The tang of smoke is heavy in the air, thicker than the scent of the dead and rotting bodies that litter the gutters.

It doesn't affect Javert, though, because something about it feels… off. False. Wrong.

Something isn't right—something has been changed or taken or—

_So stubborn about your despair._ The shadows sigh, the whisper almost indulgent. _Fine. Have your watery grave, and feed me as you drown._

There isn't time to react before he is falling, water closing over him, the memory of Jean Valjean's choices flooding through his mind again. Why had the convict saved him? What is he to do now? How—

The water darkens, shadows circling around him like sharks, but nothing touches him as he dies, unanswerable questions flooding his thoughts.

XXX

James wakes gagging and gasping, par for the course for the last few days.

It takes him two minutes of breathing steadily and carefully to reassure himself that he _can_ still draw breath, that he's safe in his apartment, that there's no immediate threat, that the dampness on his skin is merely sweat rather than water.

His frantic scrabbling as he woke has scattered the files he was looking at across his kitchen floor. Letting out his breath in a long sigh, he glances at the clock on the wall. Just before eleven. He probably fell asleep sometime between nine and ten, meaning he had barely an hour's sleep.

Meaning he'll need to go back to sleep, which isn't exactly an appealing thought right now.

Pinching the bridge of his nose tightly, James tries not to think of the dream. He didn't drown. He hasn't been tortured… and where did _that_ even come from?

He can't suppress a shiver as he bends down to gather up the scattered papers. There had been something about the young men in the dream, something familiar…

Setting the collected papers down on the table, James opens his briefcase again and thumbs through the various files inside. He finds what he wants at the back, where he always stores the cases that are in their early stages—in this case, very early. No one else at the station thinks that the boys are a danger. A nuisance, yes, and they always make sure to have people on standby given the turn-outs at their most recent rallies, but not a danger. They're just college students, after all. It's normal for them to make some noise, get people a bit riled up, and then trail off after a few months as they get distracted by girls or classes or any of the other myriad things that defined modern college life.

There's something different about these schoolboys, though. There's something different about the way they speak—eloquent, passionate, determined. There are specifics to their words—about the danger that the government is posing, about the way the government should fear the people—that put James' teeth on edge.

They say that the government should fear the people, and he believes them. These are men who, when they say that freedom needs to be defended, that their rights have been eroded and that they will reclaim them, mean every word they say.

Never mind that the government's only done what's necessary to protect the populace from threats, and it is only those with something to hide who demand privacy from those who only intend to protect them.

Never mind that they're arguing to extend special privileges to groups of people who have never had legal protection, that most religions declare as immoral, that the general populace has no interest in.

Never mind that these _children_ have no authority to say what is and isn't constitutional. The wars that America's fighting are necessary—are _right_.

Never mind that a draft _would_ be constitutional, and if it's necessary these children should have no trouble taking up arms for their country.

Not when they're so clearly willing to fight _against_ their country.

He has copies of driver's licenses for all the major players in the so-called "Independents", including their blond-haired, blue-eyed leader, and James feels his breath hiss through his teeth as he looks into a very familiar face.

Spreading the file open on the table, rifling through pictures, James studies the young men that he's been watching all summer.

It's just a dream. It likely doesn't mean anything.

(_He will make the world burn…_)I'''

He'll be keeping a closer eye on these boys anyway.

XXX

Jean picks at the dark blue sheets on the air mattress, biting at his lip as he glances up from his place on the floor toward where Barry lounges on his own bed. "You're sure that this is all right?"

"I think that's the fourth time you've asked me that." Barry smiles, turning on his side so that he's facing Jean. "If you're not comfortable staying with me, that's fine, Jean. We don't even know if you're involved. You might be safer away from us."

"Or I might be more of a target away from the rest of you." Jean's eyes drop from Barry's to study the mattress again. "If I'm alone, with no one who knows what's happening, it might think that's a good opportunity to try to snag my soul. I just don't want you to be uncomfortable staying with a stranger."

"You're not a stranger. Even if you end up not being Jehan, which would surprise the hell out of me, you're a pretty cool guy who's been really, really all right with the very bizarre things that are going on in my life right now." Barry's eyes dart toward the door to his bedroom and his voice falls to a lower pitch. "Besides, if I can stay with you, Maria can stay with Jona and Lyle without my presence interrupting… things."

"Ah…" Jean nods, thinking back on the way the trio had interacted. "I… think I understand. Do you think they'd be more comfortable if we turned on some music or something, to give them even a bit more privacy?"

Barry stares at him for a moment before shaking his head and laughing. "I'm not trying to actively encourage the ménage-a-trois next door, I just want them to have a chance to relax. If you want to put some music on, though, we can. I'm pretty content right now."

"I am, too." Blushing, Jean ducks his head and pulls his overnight bag closer to him.

He _is_ content here, sharing space with a man he met hours ago. Or… mostly content, because he has to decide when and if he wants to tell this man a little bit more about who he is.

It's hard. It's always hard, but somehow this seems like it's even more important than usual. If they're right in their thinking, then this man has been a very close friend at least once, a friend that he was happy to die with. Even if they're wrong, Barry's apparently all right with the fact that his friends are involved in an unconventional relationship. From what he's gathered of the Independents' political views, they're more likely than the general population to look on him favorably.

But he's _passing_. Perhaps it's just that they expect him to be male, because Jehan was, but he's passing so simply, so easily… and what if it all changes when he tells Barry that he's actually transgendered? That he was born in a female body, and he's been doing everything in his power for the last six years to hide that fact?

"Jean?" Barry's voice somehow manages to be both gruff and gentle. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah." Jean smiles, gathering his bag into his arms. Like every other time he's come out to others, it has to be when he's comfortable. It has to be when he feels he's ready, and he's not quite ready yet, the strange camaraderie and affection he feels for these people mingling with his own hesitancy and curiosity about them in confusing ways. If he continues to wear his sport's bra and one of his larger pajama shirts and stays under the covers, hopefully Barry won't notice anything… odd about him. "I'm going to go get ready for bed, assuming one of the others isn't in the bathroom still."

Barry sighs, collapsing down onto the bed theatrically. "Next time I get an apartment, I'm going to make sure there are two bathrooms. Maybe three. Because you just never know when the whole neighborhood's going to move in due to soul-eating monsters threatening you."

"The problems you just don't think to prepare for." Jean finds himself grinning again as he moves to the door. It's simply impossible not to smile around these people.

He hopes they'll find a way to overcome their demon.

He hopes he'll be able to help them.

But mostly he's just glad that he found them.

XXX

Jehan stumbles.

It's partially his fault. He had gotten caught up in the fighting, had climbed to the top of the barricade without thinking about it. It still would have been fine, except one of the soldiers attempting to climb the barricade is shot in front of him and latches onto Jehan's arm for support, sending them both falling down to the street in a tangle of limbs and blood.

Jehan is the only one who scrambles to his feet, but he's surrounded by the enemy, cut off from his friends, and he has only a single shot.

He uses it well. He kills the first man who tries to grab him, turning and trying to scramble back up the barricade.

He doesn't make it far. Arms grab him, haul him back, and though he tries to use his musket as a bludgeon it's ripped from his hands, leaving him weaponless. A rifle barrel slams into the side of his head, and his knees go weak, the world spinning around him. His wrists are tied together before he can blink everything back into focus, and two soldiers drag him away from the barricade.

It's about then that he realizes he's going to die, and that there's nothing he can do about it.

He's known that death is a possibility. It's something they've all had to live with since becoming involved with Les Amis. But to know that it's going to happen within minutes, to know that he's never going to have an opportunity to write down any of the verses he's thought of since the revolution began in earnest…

It's a heady feeling. It's terror and anger and helplessness and despair and love, so much love and sorrow for those he's going to leave behind, and he wishes they would give him a chance to write before executing him.

They question him before they execute him. He gives them nothing, staying silent, only allowing pieces of verse to slide between his lips when he must say something.

They take him back toward the barricade for his execution. They offer him a blindfold, but he refuses. He wants to see everything, experience every instance, especially if it might be the last thing he ever knows.

Drawing a deep breath, he watches as the rifles are readied and aimed at him. They've moved him closer to the barricades so that his friends can hear him scream, hear him beg, but that isn't what he's going to do.

"_Vive la France! Long live the future!_"

He hears the shots after the pain strikes him, agony such as he's never known, and he hits the paving stones hard. How long will it take him to die? How long will his eyes still work? What will they do with his body? What—

_One more lost, useless puppet._ Cold hands slide over his chest, covering the wounds there, and a face that is nothing but black shadows and the reddest, deepest, most hate-filled eyes he's ever seen peers down at him. _One more sacrifice to a hopeless people, a defeated cause, a damned leader._

(_Jehan?_)

He tries to draw breath to respond to the creature crouching over him, but it's blood rather than air that fills his mouth. What is this monster? What does it want with him?

(_Our soul, it wants our soul, don't be afraid—_)

_Welcome to hell, Jean._ The creature smiles, displaying razor-edged teeth that drip blood. _Come with me. Come see what your death started._

Glacial fingers close around his wrist, draw him to his feet, and he can suddenly breathe easily again, can feel his tongue loosen in his mouth. "What do you mean?"

_I mean what I say. This is hell._ The creature reaches up, runs claws across Jean's forehead in a stinging, clawing parody of affection, and Jehan blinks as blood starts to drip down his face. _This is hell, and I am your escort, until such time as I see fit to set you free._

(_Lying, it's lying, this isn't real—_)

_Do you think he saw?_ The creature walks with him back to the barricade, and time has somehow twisted, bent back so that he is watching himself being dragged away from the barricade.

Except his eyes don't focus on his own body, on the story that he knows. Instead they fall on Bahorel, fighting valiantly at the top of the barricade. He knows something terrible is going to happen, can feel it in the tension in the air, see it in the smile of the beast still holding his arm. Wrenching himself away from the creature, he tries to reach Bahorel, but there are too many soldiers in the way and the ground itself seems to be against him, catching at his feet, stretching the distance between himself and Bahorel.

He reaches Bahorel after the man's been stabbed, but before he dies. He doesn't know how much it matters. Bahorel doesn't respond to him, blood trailing in a frothy stream from his mouth, the well-defined muscles in his arms and legs twitching sporadically but not producing any actual movement.

Jehan cries as Bahorel's ragged breaths finally stop. Out of all of them, Bahorel had been the one with the most experience, both in war and in brawling. He should have been the last to fall, though there is a part of Jehan that says that this is also right, this is also appropriate. He died fighting, died bleeding, died for the cause, and that was far better for Bahorel than being imprisoned, than dying of illness, than dying of old age. Bahorel was never a man who was meant to die of old age.

_Do you think he died for you?_ The shadow's hand traces the tears on his cheeks, gentle cold that becomes icy fire as its claws dig into his skin. _Do you think he saw you being dragged away, and tried to get to you?_

(_No. Even if it's true, no, it wasn't your fault, it wasn't—_)

It hurts. It's absolute agony, guilt and grief and sorrow, but Bahorel wouldn't want him to let the agony touch the brilliance that was his life and death. Bahorel was a man who loved as fiercely as he fought, and he wouldn't want any of his friends to lose themselves over what happened.

(_Yes, Jehan, hold onto that, hold on—_)

_Come with me._ The shadow takes his hand again. _There's much more to see here, much more despair to watch unfold._

He watches Courfeyrac die next. The man doesn't stop talking until the end, though his eyes stare through Jehan, never seeing him.

_Death._ The shadow whispers into his ear. _Always death. Death is what follows you, what your great dreams bring to fruition. Even for those who have been the most alive, even for those who love and live with all their hearts, even for the best of you, death is the ultimate answer._

(_Just for a bit, just temporary, and you can make it through this, Jehan. We can survive this, and we will know what they know, what happened at the barricades, what it's been showing them._)

He cries at each death. His tears are a constant thing in this world, his sobs a counterpoint to the thundering of guns, the screams of the injured, the clash of blades. He tries to interfere, in every instance, but there is never enough time, always too much space between him and them, and he only arrives at his friends' sides in time to sit with them as they die. Even that would be fine if they would join him here, a spirit, a ghost, but instead their flesh grows cold, their gaze distant, all that makes them _who they are_ drained away, and he is left more alone than ever before.

(_Not alone. I'll find you, Jehan. I'll reach you._)

Grantaire and Enjolras fall together, the last of them to die, and he doesn't touch either of them. It isn't his place to interfere with something that is already so beautiful, so perfect, the cynic and the idealist, the lover and the beloved, doubt and faith, complacency and hope, finally standing together in solidarity at the end of everything, Icarus given unbreakable wings on which to fly.

_You_ feel_ so much._ The shadow practically purrs against his neck. _I knew it when I marked you, knew you would be a wonderful one to feed from, but you're better than I could ever have imagined, Jehan. Shall we do this again? Shall we watch them all die again?_

He doesn't have time to answer before they are back in front of the barricade, in the furious battle in which Bahorel lost his life, and Jean barely manages to bite back a scream of agony as history repeats itself.

There has to be a way to stop this.

(_There is._)

There has to be a way for him to break free from this beast's grasp.

(_Listen to me. Come to me._)

There has to be—

Claws sink into his chest, and the shadow's voice purrs against his chest once more. _Do not ruin this moment, little one. I am strong tonight, and enjoying feeding off of you, but if you want to speed the process…_

He screams. He can't help but scream as cold tendrils spread through him, centered at where those terrible claws pierce his flesh. Death he can face, has made himself intimately familiar with over the years. Grief he can face, unashamedly, one of the emotions he has always embraced whole-heartedly in its confluence of love and loss and longing. But this… this agony… this is something _other_, something striving to hollow out his soul, to steal the words and the rhythms from his mind, to drain all that he is out through these icy-cold rivers of hate and anger that it threads through him, and he must not allow it.

He must find a way to stop it.

_Jehan!_ The name is a howl in his head, drowning out the feel of the shadow's cold against him. _Jehan, listen to me, it's all right, it's not real. We're going to wake up, and none of this will be real._

The truth of the words is in the easing of the cold, a dimming of the sharp sensation of knives cutting into his skin, and he hears the shadow howl in impotent fury as the image of the barricade collapses around them.

There a few seconds during which he blinks up at a face that is familiar, achingly, hauntingly, painfully, _beautifully_ familiar, and he smiles as he says Bahorel's name before slipping into the quiet serenity of unconsciousness.

XXX

"Jean! Jean, wake up!"

Bahorel shakes him once more, and Jean smiles up at the man, happy to see him alive, happy to feel the strength and warmth of his hands.

Except that's not quite right. This man isn't Bahorel. This man is a new friend, someone he barely knows, Barry, and Jean frowns as he tries to hold onto the fragments of the dream while simultaneously remembering what's real.

It's hard. It's like trying to catch water that's running through his hands, trying to hold onto all the knowledge and the emotions that were running through him mere moments ago, but he's not going to fail at this.

He touched Jehan's mind. He's certain of it, and he's not going to lose it again.

Bahorel. Barry is Bahorel, and Jehan loved him dearly—Jehan loved all of Les Amis dearly, openly, and the things that the shadow showed him cut deeply.

Jean gasps as pain blossoms in his head, a sharp agony that causes him to scrunch his eyes tightly closed. His stomach clenches, hard, and he has to struggle not to gag, to keep breathing.

"Jean!" Absolute terror fills Barry's voice. "Come on, Jean, look at me. You're awake. You're all right. It can't touch you any more. Come on, Jean, don't do this to me. Shit, don't you start bleeding! You hear me? Don't do this! _Jona!_"

Each word that Barry bellows echoes in Jean's mind, smashes against the blood that's trying to break its way out of his skull with each beat of his too-fast heart, and Jean reaches up, groping blindly until he places his hand over Barry's mouth.

He needs it to be quiet outside, because it's not quiet inside his head.

It's hard. It's so hard to hold and sort the ideas, the memories, the images, but he knows it's possible. He knows that he can wake Jehan, if he tries hard enough, and he desperately wants to have the other man standing beside him for this battle.

(_You…?_)

The whisper is a half-conscious slur, the murmuring of someone just on the edge of sleep, and Jean pounces on it. _Me. You. Us. I need you. I need you to help me, so we can help them._

(_Help them…_)

There is more strength in the voice, more awareness, more determination, and Jean gasps in a sharp breath as names and emotions flood through his mind.

Jehan loved the Amis. It's the knowledge that Jean knows best, and he hammers it, follows it, dives into it in order to find the other man's consciousness. Jehan knew them all, wrote of them all, and Jean's mind is suddenly filled with that knowledge, that emotion, and he can feel tears streaming down his cheeks.

(_Help them!_)

It's still not quite coherency, not quite full consciousness, but there's determination underlying the panic, and Jean's memories of the dream snap into crystal-clear focus. He needs to find a way to help them. He needs to find a way to stop the cycle, to save them. He needs to find a way to stop the death. He needs—

Whispers fill his mind, too many to name, too many to count, and he gasps in a breath that comes out as a keening sob.

"Jean?" Someone pries his right eye open, shines a light into it, and he knows that the man's name is Jona now but the whispers all give him other names, though the emotion in the naming is always the same.

He loves this man.

Always, he finds and loves these people.

_Jean?_ This voice is louder than a whisper, and he manages to focus on it despite the utter chaos filling his head. _Jean, what's happening?_

_Don't know._ Jean tries to ignore the scenes that flash through his mind—blood, explosions, screams, fear, blue eyes, black hair, he can't keep anything straight, he can't _think_—and just focus on Jehan's voice. _I wanted you. I was trying to find you._

_Consider me found. Confused, and still sore, but found._ Jehan's as much intrigued and fascinated by the maelstrom that they're drowning in as he is frightened by it, and Jean latches on to that intrigue, uses it to help him quell his own panic and do what needs to be done.

Jehan is the one that he wanted. Memories of the Amis and of France are what they need. Everything else in the white noise is simply a distraction, something to be pushed aside and buried.

Breath by breath, voice by voice, he and Jehan manage to silence the cacophony until it's just them again.

He's glad that Jehan's there, that the poet's willing and able to help him, because he doesn't think he'd be able to silence it on his own. There's too much fascinating potential in the whispers, too many stories that he wants to be able to bury himself in and drown in, but he can't. He mustn't. Jehan's hand is always there to catch him, though, when he wants to follow a thread back into the drowning madness, reminding him of what they have to do, and he is there for Jehan, the two of them working together as though they were two halves of the same soul.

Or two… tenths? Elevenths? Twelfths? He's not sure how many other voices he silences, but he knows that they're all echoes of him, just as surely as he is an echo of Jehan and vice versa.

_Well, that was an exciting way to come back to life._ Good humor fills Jehan's voice as he contemplates Jean, their thoughts separate but close together.

If Jean wanted, he could read all that happened in Jehan's life, dive into all the memories and knowledge that Jean Prouvaire collected throughout his existence. After all that's just happened, though, he thinks it smarter if they simply stay close enough to understand each other, to borrow from the other's language, without getting their thoughts and memories more tangled together.

_Agreed._ Jehan's voice is gentle. _Especially since it seems that we're needed here—that the Amis have a different battle to fight now._

Oh. Shoot. The rest of the Amis.

Trying to ignore the ache still lingering in his head, the nausea twisting his gut into knots, Jean slits his eyes open.

He's in a car. He realizes that as soon as he becomes aware of his body as something other than a collection of aches and pains. The night presses in around the car, broken at regular intervals by the flash of streetlights outside the window, and Jehan is suddenly pressing forward, awed and fascinated by how different the world has become.

_Later._ Jean can't help but smile at the eagerness in Jehan's thoughts as he attempts to process what they're seeing. _I'll let you take my body sightseeing later._

He's being cradled in someone's arms. Blinking, finding his night vision slowly, Jean looks up into Barry's grim face.

_Bahorel!_ Jehan's glee at seeing his friend is an almost tangible thing, a wave of pleasure and hope that washes through Jean and leaves him grinning and giddy. _He's alive. Bahorel's alive!_

"Jean?" Bahorel—Barry—says the name quietly, as though he doesn't expect an answer, as though he's said it many times before.

"Hi." Struggling to sit up, Jean finds that he's very firmly held against Barry's body. "Um… I'm all right."

"He's talking? He's awake?" Jona's voice comes from the front of the car, from the driver's seat, and Jean manages to tilt his head enough that he can see the other man's reflection in the rear-view mirror.

It wouldn't be so hard to do if Barry would loosen his hold a bit. Given how fierce and protective Barry's grasp feels right now, Jean's not sure that he has the heart to ask for that, though. "I'm talking. I'm awake. I hurt, but I'm all right."

"Oh really?" One of Barry's hands releases its hold, though the other only tightens. Barry lifts a handful of blood-drenched paper towels from the seat next to him. "You've got scratches on your forehead and down your left cheek, and I'm pretty sure you just dumped about a gallon of blood on me."

"Not quite that much. It always looks like there's more blood than there really is." Jona continues to glance back in the rear-view mirror. "But definitely enough to be frightening. What happened, Jean?"

_Me._ Jehan's voice makes the pounding in their head slightly stronger, but Jean doesn't mind. _That's what happened, isn't it?_

"I found Jehan." Squirming in Barry's grip, Jean sits up a bit straighter, trying not to sway as he does. He feels weak as a kitten. "I can hear him. I can talk to him. And there were… others. I—"

A quiet susurrus builds amidst the pain in his head, and Jean presses a hand to his eyes.

"Steady there." Barry's arms shift, wrap around Jean's waist and help him to stay upright. "Just focus on us, Jean. You're here. Whatever the shadow did to you, it's over. You're safe."

"Do you need to go to the hospital? Because that's where we were taking you." Jona brings the car to a stop at a red light and turns around in the seat. "Due to the bleeding and the not responding to us and everything. I know there's not much they could do for soul-type damage, but we didn't know what else to do."

"I woke you as soon as I could, as soon as I heard you cry out." Barry's voice is a gruff whisper. "I tried, Jehan."

Or Bahorel's voice, and Jean frowns as Jehan tries to figure out how to take control of their body. It's an odd sensation—not painful, but not exactly pleasant, and he tenses as words leave his mouth that he didn't request his body to say. "I'm fine, Bahorel. Joly. A bit confused, and sore, and incredibly glad to see you after what that demon showed me, but… overall all right."

"And you, Jean?" Barry's hands tighten around Jean's waist. "How're you handling this?"

"I think I just risked fracturing my soul trying to hold onto him, but I succeeded. I remember—he remembers. Oh, man, I have the worst head-ache ever." Curling closer to Barry, Jean shivers and squeezes his eyes shut for a minute. "I think… trying to hold onto Jehan like this wasn't the brightest idea I've ever had. But I didn't want to wait months for us to reach whatever equilibrium you guys have. I need him. You need him. Except… I almost got a lot more than him." The nausea spikes again, and Jean clenches his hands hard around Barry's, trying to fix himself in the world, on the lights that flare and fade outside the window, rather than letting his thoughts fragment. "We've had other lives, as a group, all of us. That's all I'm going to be able to say about it for a while, though."

"Just say what you can." Jona's voice is soothing, and he handles the car well. It's probably the smoothest car-ride Jean's ever been a part of. "If you're sure you're fine, I won't subject you to hours in the emergency room. If you'd feel more comfortable getting checked out by a real doctor, we can certainly still go; though if you'd be fine with some premed student fumbling, I can check you over. Did it try to… did it sink its claws into your chest? Do you have a bruise there?"

Jean feels panic rise, hot and sharp in the back of his throat, his heart rate doubling in the space of a second. It's foolish, he's certain. The others are going to find out eventually. The others will probably be all right with it. It might even be nicer having Jona look at him than having to explain his gender to a medical professional who may or may not approve, and could make his life miserable based on their approval. But—

_Oh._ Jehan's voice is quiet wonder in the back of his head, confused, uncertain. _Well. This is… different._

It isn't blatant censure in Jehan's thoughts. He should be grateful for that, at least. It's more a bemused wondering on how this came to be, especially as he quickly pulls from Jean's mind that all the others seem to be cis-gendered male.

It's still more doubt than Jean has had to entertain about his gender in a long time, and it threatens to bring tears to his eyes… something which only exacerbates the problem.

He doesn't despise the feminine. There are a lot of things about being female, being a woman, that he thinks would be wonderful. But he's _not_. No matter that the body he was born into has female anatomy, he knows that _he's_ not female, and he wants others to know that.

And what's the worst insult to call a man who cries? A sissy, a _girl_, and he really needs to stop panicking so much. It's not like him. He's not afraid to cry, even if it outs him, because men _should_ be allowed to cry. These are old scars, old fears, things he thought he'd moved past.

Though given that he has a two-hundred-year-old dead version of himself in his head and had a monster trying to devour his essence not that long ago, he probably shouldn't blame himself too much for having trouble.

"Did it try to damage your soul, Jean?" Barry's head nudges against his, drawing Jean back out of his own thoughts again.

"Um… it touched me, touched its claws to my chest, but I don't think it got very much." Jean shivers despite the warmth of the summer evening, despite Barry's arms around him, remembering the feel of those icy rivers of hatred and fury attempting to snake into him. "I think most of the bleeding was due to… after."

"That would fit with what I saw." Barry shifts his weight, just slightly. "You woke up when I shook you, and looked at me, and seemed all right, but then… then you closed your eyes again, and you… there were words in languages I don't know. That Bahorel doesn't know."

"Yeah." Jean's voice comes out higher than he usually allows it to and he clears his throat. "Yeah, that would be when I did something not very bright but which, I think, has worked out for the best."

"That would also be when you started bleeding, so please don't do it again." Barry's arms release him with reluctance as Jean crawls over to sit in the seat next to him.

"Not planning on doing it again." Jean offers Barry a smile, though it turns to a slight frown as he takes in the blood smears on Barry's shirt and arms. "Sorry for bleeding on you."

"Sorry for manhandling you. I just thought it would be faster for me to carry you than it would be for us to wait for an ambulance." Barry shrugs, his eyes scanning up and down Jean's body. "You don't weigh all that much, after all. If you say that you're fine, though, and there's no need for us to worry, we won't. But if you need anyone—including if there's anyone in particular you want to look at your wounds, someone other than us—just say the word. I'm not averse to waking people up if need be. It's kind of fun to watch how different people respond to you interrupting their sleep."

He knows. Jean knows, somehow, watching the way Barry's eyes scan down his body before facing forward again, that Barry knows. He hasn't said anything to Jona, though, and he's giving Jean time to think of what he wants to say.

"I want to go back home—back to your place." Jean speaks slowly, reaching up to touch his face and wincing at the sting from the scratches on his forehead and cheek as he does. His face hurts far more than his chest does, making him fairly certain that he didn't take any significant damage there.

Which would make sense. This is the first time the shadow's come for him. It spent months working the others over before making its first attempts on their souls.

Begging the question of why it's so eager now, so reckless now, but that's a conundrum that can wait until he's gotten cleaned up. "I want to go back to your place, and I'll get cleaned up, and I'll tell you guys what I can about what happened. And you can all talk to Jehan."

_Yes._ Jehan is all eager anticipation, any hesitancy lost in absolute joy at the prospect of talking with the rest of the Amis again. _Oh, yes._

"I'm already heading back." Jona sighs. "And I'm at least going to look at your face, make sure none of the scratches are deeper than they look. And I'd like to look at your chest, if you'll allow. And I'll get your hematocrit in the morning, make sure you didn't lose more blood than it looks like."

"All right." Jean's not sure he'll allow Jona to look at his chest, not yet, but the rest is fine with him.

"And this may be callous, given that it apparently hurt you, but…" Jona smiles once more into the rear-view mirror, an expression of absolute joy. "I'm glad that Jehan's awake now."

"Me, too." Jean heaves a deep sigh. "I'm glad to have him, and I'm glad to have found you all."

There's silence for the remainder of the car ride, but it's a comfortable silence, a silence of unspoken camaraderie that Jehan hadn't realized he was missing, and he finds himself resting his head against Bahorel's—Barry's—shoulder without thinking about it.

Barry doesn't seem to mind, though, and the fact that all the Amis are together, fighting side by side, is all that really matters in the end.


	24. Part Twenty-Four: The Patient Dark

**Author's Note:** I am so, so sorry this update is so late. My little brother was in a car accident that totaled his car. He's all right, by a miracle, just some bruises, but the accident really did bad things to my head. It triggered a bout of depression that made it hard for me to do pretty much anything, especially write/edit Enjolras, and of course he's really important for the next two chapters. Things are better now, and I am definitely going to be finishing both my long stories (there are all these storyboards and plans I've done and important revelations that I'm looking forward to making, damn it!). Updates are going to be back on my Wednesday/Saturday schedule now that my brain is working right again and I've got a buffer chapter for each story, and I'm really, really sorry and grateful to anyone who has patiently stuck around.

_Part Twenty-Four: The Patient Dark_

"Eric." Grant manages not to screw up saying the simple name, though his voice comes out tense and tight despite his best efforts.

The man turns to him, both pale eyebrows raised in silent question. Eric's hair hangs loose around his shoulders, a golden lion's mane of fine strands, and his blue eyes are half-hooded with sleep already. He's just finished shrugging into the T-shirt and loose shorts that are his standard pajama clothing, and he looks gorgeous and adorable and much younger than his twenty years of age.

For a moment Grant can't manage to get words out. What's he possibly thinking of doing? This is Eric. He can't—

_No panicking._ Grantaire's voice is firm, cutting off the stream of denials and self-recriminations before it can get started. _You know he's not actually as young as he looks, and neither of them is too innocent to know what sex and romance are. I'm also fairly certain both of them could break us in half in any fight._

Grant thinks back on those times he's seen Eric fight—usually sparring with Barry, once when a political debate got out of hand. He's pretty sure Grantaire's right, and that was _before_ Eric got all of Enjolras' memories and skills.

_See? He's quite capable of defending himself, of choosing what he wants, and he said that he wants to give you this opportunity. _Grantaire's tone shifts from gently cajoling to mildly exasperated. _You've already dithered about this thing all evening. Either do it or don't, but don't leave me wondering. Don't leave _yourself_ wondering._

_But what if the timing's all wrong still?_ Grant bites on the inside of his cheek, not quite hard enough to draw blood. _He was hurt this evening. What if he doesn't even want to consider… this… now?_

_We could always start by asking him how he feels._ There's a note of amusement to Grantaire's voice that Grant doesn't think is appropriate to the situation. _Oh, come now, Grant. Laughing at you is rather like laughing at myself. Would you prefer I mope?_

_No. Please, continue to mock my flailing self. I'm quite certain I deserve it._ Shaking his head, Grant lifts his eyes to meet Eric's. Eric hasn't moved, still studying Grant with a patient, calm gaze, and Grant can't keep from smiling. "How're you feeling, Eric?"

Eric's mouth softens, just the faintest hint of a smile appearing at the edges. "I think I've been asked that about three dozen times this evening, including a few times by you already, and the answer's still the same. I feel… all right. I didn't mean to frighten you. I… wish I hadn't."

Eric chooses his words slowly, carefully, his gaze unfocused for a moment, not watching Grant.

Grant wishes, briefly, that he knew what or who, other than him, Eric's responding to with those careful words. He wishes he were like Con, that he could read Eric's thoughts as easily as breathing, but he's not. He has to use words to try to claw out even a modicum of understanding of how Eric's mind works, of what paths it's trying to head down. "Did you want to talk about what happened?"

"I'll _need_ to talk about what happened." Eric hesitates a moment before crossing the short distance to the bed and settling down next to Grant. He leaves a polite few inches between them, but Grant still feels like his skin is burning from the proximity of Eric's. "I'll need to find a way to explain it to all of you so that you can understand—so that we can come up with theories as to why and how to keep it from happening again. I could… try to talk about it with you."

Grant doesn't like the way that Eric says _try_, as though Eric's not sure he would succeed, as though he's… there has to be a word that fits better than _frightened_, because Eric doesn't do frightened, but that's what comes to Grant's mind first.

Cold fear slithers and slides through Grant's guts as he studies his hands, trying to find the right words to answer that offer. Does he dare be the only one here if Eric's going to do something that makes him sound like that? Does he trust himself to be Eric's lifeline if things go wrong? If he's going to try to be anything more to Eric than a useless roommate, he has to start trusting himself a bit, though. "If you feel up to talking about it, I'm here for you. We could even record it, if you wanted—then we'll have exactly what you said if the others want to hear it later."

Eric nods, slowly. "It's not a bad idea. Though I'm not sure how much I'll talk if I get… caught up in it."

"Hold that thought." Jumping up, Grant fetches the voice recorder, trying not to let fear show in his shaking hands. It's a good thing that Eric's trusting him enough to even consider going through what happened again, and Grant's not going to ruin it by begging the man not to hurt himself. Settling back down on the bed by Eric, Grant presses record and draws a deep breath. "All right. So. Where did you want to start?"

"Ah…" Eric's arms tense, his gaze dropping to the ground. "It started when Jean and Con pointed out the pattern to our birthdays. There's something about the timing there, about…" Eric's eyes close, and he draws in a sharp breath. "Every two weeks. In one of our past lives, I think, in the last one… something… every two weeks… blood… blood on me… I can't…"

"Whoa, there. Easy." Grant drops the audio recorder onto the bed, heedless as to where it lands, and wraps his arms around Eric's shoulders as Eric buries his head in his hands. "Eric? Come on, Eric, look at me. Talk to me."

"I can't even think about it." Eric's tired whisper holds a bitter frustration that Grant's never heard from him before. He raises his head slowly, and Grant tries not to stare at the thin streaks of red on Eric's hands or across his cheek. "We can't even _think_ about it, Grant, without the pattern starting to repeat itself. How am I supposed to solve the problem if I can't think? If I start _bleeding_ as soon as I try to figure it out, drowning in too many… _fuck_."

The curse is a quiet moan as Eric buries his head in his hands again, his whole body trembling minutely against Grant's.

Not good. This is really not good.

It's also something Grant feels vaguely familiar with—that Grant feels he's had to deal with before, his thoughts trying to spiral along the same frustrating, hopeless paths over and over again. Sometimes he drinks to try to make it stop; sometimes drinking makes it start. He's not sure what kind of soul-wound would cause the same problem, and it's probably not a good thing that it makes Eric bleed, but he knows enough to know it needs to stop.

And that it can be exceedingly hard to stop thinking about something when you need to.

"Eric." Grant gives his shoulder a little shake. "Don't think about it now. Come on, Eric, head up, look at me. You don't need to think about it. You've got the rest of the group who can brainstorm about it for you—Con and Cori and Finny and Lyle and Jona and _everyone_, the Independents, they'll come up with an answer for you. So think about something else right now. Tell me about something else. Tell me about… tell me about what you want the world to look like in twenty years."

"Grant…" Eric's voice is a thready whisper as he shakes his head, his hands still pressed against his face. "I can't. It hur—"

"_No._" Grant's voice is firm, the horror only entering his tone after he speaks that simple denial. It takes his mind a few seconds to catch up with his soul, with the gut reaction of rejection that Eric's breathless voice generates. "You don't get to say that, Eric. You don't get to say that you _can't_. Hell, man, I've never heard you say _anything's_ impossible. This is _you_. Even if it hurts, you can manage it."

Eric's hands slide down his face, unfocused blue eyes blinking slowly at Grant, and for a moment Grant can't draw breath. If Eric's at the point of giving up, of saying he can't manage it…

"Eric. Come on." Grant gives Eric's shoulders one fierce shake, his own body trembling to match Eric's. He should never have suggested Eric try to talk about this, not with him, not without some of the others around. "Talk politics to me, Eric. Talk about anything else, it'll help, I promise, and politics should come easy to you. It's the best pillow-talk you know how to do. Twenty years, Eric. Tell me about twenty years from now."

"I want…" Drawing a deep breath, Eric shudders, his hands clenching into fists. Blood slides from his nose in a slow, steady stream, and his eyes remain unfocused, but at least he's trying again. "I want to… to see it fixed. I want to see… a true democracy. People will be educated, freely, evenly, without regard to race or class or gender or any other marker of group identity. Intelligence will be nurtured, wherever it's found, given opportunity to grow to true fruition, but without dismissal or denigration of those whose strengths don't align with traditional markers of intellect."

Grant smiles, recognizing some of Con and Finny's words mixed in with Eric's. Eric's always believed in education, but since meeting Con and Finny he's become much more invested in the topic, much more vocal about unchaining school funding from the income of the area the school is in. Grant doesn't think it'll really change anything, in the end—he doubts Gary would care much for school even if he could go to a good one—but it's been a fascinating shift to watch in Eric. "That's it, Eric. Think about things like that. Keep talking to me about the future."

A slight smile pulls at the corner of Eric's mouth, and his eyes are still unfocused, but it's a healthier type of unfocused, almost the look he gets when caught up in a speech for the crowds, painting a picture of a future that few could imagine on their own. "They'll vote. The Independents will make their mark, along with all the other groups like us working around the nation, and the people will vote. Their voice will be heard, and we'll have done our job, we'll have educated them, and their vote will steer our country back to what it should be. Our freedoms won't be curtailed for fear. Censorship will be fought, tooth and nail, no matter who is doing the censoring or what is being censored. Our privacy will be protected, on and off-line. The wars will end, the soldiers will be brought home, and they will be honored once they're home for the hardship they've endured, eased back into civilian life with dignity. Talk of drafts, of stealing futures from young men and women, will disappear. Queer rights will be upheld by majority vote and by the courts, morality and legality aligning against injustice …" Eric sighs, the tension easing from his shoulders. "Do you want me to continue listing talking points, or if I tell you that I'm not bleeding and I don't feel like there's a war in my head anymore will that be enough?"

"Don't undo all that hard work by talking about it again." Grant's index finger presses between Eric's eyebrows briefly as he returns the man's smile. "Not that I don't enjoy hearing you talk politics, abbreviated or not, but I don't think you want to do it all night."

Eric's smile grows as he wipes half-heartedly at the blood on his face with his hand, mainly succeeding in smearing it around. "I've pulled all-nighters for less interesting things. It will be hard to confront and kill the shadow if I don't sleep, though."

Releasing Eric's shoulders, putting a few inches of space between them again now that Eric seems to be doing better, Grant studies the blond man. Eric's face is serene as he talks about killing the shadow, no fear showing. "I think you really mean that—about killing the shadow."

Eric looks surprised. "That's because I do. We need it to stop tormenting us. It either needs to die or be driven off, and since I don't like the idea of it simply going on to torment others… it needs to die."

"Well, I wish you the best of hunting, then." If any of them can kill the beast, it'll be Eric. "And I'm sorry I asked you to try to talk about that other thing that we're not going to talk about."

"It's all right, Grant." Eric shrugs, rubbing two of his fingers together, blood outlining his fingerprints in crimson. "It's not the first time this evening I've tried to approach it. It won't be the last time I do, either. I need to find the answers. I'm not going to get them tonight, though, and I'm sorry if I frightened you."

"It doesn't frighten me. Not…" Letting out a slow breath, Grant tries to sort through what has and hasn't bothered him. "I don't like seeing you hurt, but it doesn't scare me. It's… the thought that I won't be able to help you, that something will happen to you that I won't be able to stop. And… and when you sounded lost. _That_ scared me, because I don't know how to process you sounding lost."

Eric nods, slowly, expression pensive. "I think I'm going to go clean up. Then we can head to bed."

"Right." Grant sighs, watching Eric walk to the bathroom.

That conversation didn't go quite the way that he had intended.

_It didn't go _too _badly, though. He's alive. We didn't do anything foolish. We might even have come up with something useful—maybe we can be the record-keeper for the group. Painting, recording, reflecting, it seems to be what we're best at._ Grant reaches out absently to turn off the recorder while Grantaire continues to watch Eric, appreciating all the changes to clothing styles that have occurred since his time. Shorts are much nicer to wear in the heat of summer, and the way they show off Enjolras' legs is quite flattering. _You didn't quite get to the heart of the matter we were originally intent on discussing, though._

_I'm not going to ask if I can kiss him while he has blood all over his face._ Not that Eric didn't look good even like that… which is not a train of thought Grant's going to allow to continue. Grant tries not to blush as he hears the water turn on in the bathroom. _If you think it's a good idea, if you don't think it'll be pushing too much on him, then maybe when he comes back…_

_I'm not sure I'm the one you want to give you suggestions on timing._ Wry humor fills Grantaire's voice. _I'm the man who kept trying and failing to have any kind of relationship with the one he idolized and only got it right when he was literally in front of the firing squad. But… he offered. You want it. And the future is looking rather uncertain, so if you want it…_

Grant nods, letting out his breath in a slow sigh. "If I want it, I need to try."

At least he's always been good at trying.

Not always so good at succeeding, but good at trying, and asking for what he wants from Eric is going to put the ball back into Eric's court.

Hopefully that will make this entire prospect a bit less daunting.

Eric managed not to get blood on any of his clothes.

He's not sure if he was just lucky or if he's getting better at dealing with sudden nose-bleeds. Perhaps a bit of both, though he's _really_ not sure how that makes him feel.

_We need to find out what happened to us._ Enjolras' presence is a bright, prowling flame in his head, the man's words practically a growl as he considers new ways to stalk their problem. _We need to find a way to sort through it, Eric, to draw out the part that's related to the injury without waking the rest of it—without splintering ourselves._

_I know._ Eric washes the last of the blood off his hands, raising his eyes to gaze into the mirror. "If you have any suggestions, shoot, because so far all we're doing is pounding our metaphorical head against a brick wall and ruining clothes."

"I have… guesses about what might have happened, about what might cause so must pain and distress for us." Enjolras raises a hand to touch his face, rubbing away a final speck of blood. "But every time I start trying to think about them…"

"We get drawn back into our little problem." Eric smiles, though there isn't any humor in the expression. "I know. I've been there for the experience. Tomorrow we'll run our ideas past Con, see what he thinks… see if we can get anything else."

Eric draws a deep breath, closing his eyes and humming a few bars of music, waiting for the nausea and sense of impending doom that seems to be an indicator he's edging too close to their soul-wound to fade.

It does, and he opens his eyes to give a more truthful smile to the man in the mirror. "One problem at a time, Enjolras. I know you're frustrated about this—me, too. But tonight we're focused on killing a shadow. Right?"

_Right._ Enjolras' assent is heartfelt, though there is a part of him that still wants to worry at their soul-wound, a hunting dog that doesn't want to be deterred from the scent. _Focus on the shadow tonight; face our _others_ tomorrow._

Eric nods silent assent and rubs absently at his head as he makes his way back to the bedroom. He wonders if other people are as overwhelmed by his energy and his ability to multitask as he sometimes is by Enjolras.

Walking back into the bedroom, Eric reaches for the light switch. Let Enjolras vent some of his energy during the dream. If they can lure the shadow close, even using their soul-wound as they have in the past, perhaps they can cut down on the number of problems they're—

"Could I talk to you about that offer you made?" Grant's words come quick, not quite tripping over themselves, and Eric turns to see Grant sitting ramrod straight on the edge of the bed. "If now isn't a good time, that's fine. It's late and I know you've had a hell of a day and you might even have decided better than to offer something like that to someone like me but—"

"Grant." Cutting into Grant's monologue ensures that the man pauses to take a breath. "Are you talking about the offer I made to date you?"

"Yes. I am. That would be the offer I'm talking about." Grant's face gets steadily redder until he looks away from Eric. "I assure you, this conversation went much better in my head than it has gone so far in reality."

"You're doing just fine." A fond smile pulls at Eric's mouth as he studies his roommate.

Grant turns back to him slowly, hesitantly. "So… are you still considering dating me?"

"I honestly haven't given it too much thought." Eric frowns at the hurt look that crosses Grant's face. "Mainly because there have been other things occupying my mind, not because I've decided I don't like the idea."

"So… you are still interested?" A note of wary hopefulness enters Grant's voice as he straightens. "And if you are… is Enjolras all right with it?"

"I…" Eric hesitates, realizing that he can't give a simple answer to either question. Closing his eyes, he stills his body, giving his mind a chance to consider the problem.

What does he want with Grant?

He's not sure. There's so much he's not sure of lately, but surely _this_ shouldn't be too difficult to figure out. People managed to enter and exit relationships all the time, often with little to no fanfare or soul-searching involved.

_Yes. But we're not like most people._ Enjolras' words are a simple statement of fact. _You and I don't experience physical attraction like most people do, at least if I've understood the concepts you've been trying to teach me properly. And you and I rarely decide anything lightly. So what do you want, Eric?_

He doesn't know.

A spike of exasperation runs through Enjolras' thoughts, and though it's quickly pushed away, dissipating into calm patience again, it still stings.

Eric tries not to sound petulant or hurt as he directs his thoughts toward Enjolras. _He wants to know what you want, too. So what are your thoughts on the matter, Enjolras?_

_I think…_ Enjolras' presence pulls away for a moment before returning, a wry, self-deprecating note to his thoughts. _I think it's a difficult question._

_Yeah._ Eric relaxes, slowly, his lips turning up into a slight smile. _It is._

He cares for Grant. It may be a simple thing to say, but it's the place to start, a concrete truth that he can work to a conclusion from.

He cares for Grant. He cares for all of the Independents, deeply, passionately—a soul-deep feeling, he supposes now, an instinctual trust and respect that has only deepened the longer he's known them in this life. Who wouldn't love them? Con's intelligence and eloquence; Finny's amazing fortitude and benevolent caring for all; Cori's vivacious love of life and liberty and humanity; Barry's quick grin, the only thing quicker than his fists; Jona's knowledge and tenderness; Lyle's calm good humor and biting wit, no matter what they're facing; and now Jean, accepting the impossible without batting an eye, quick to offer suggestions and theories and never once questioning their sanity…

He feels like he's complete again, like he's found pieces of himself that he didn't even know were missing.

But Grant doesn't slot neatly in with the rest of the Independents. There has been a connection between them from the moment Eric laid eyes on him, true, but it isn't the same type of connection that he has to the others. The others follow him for shared ideals; he has no idea why Grant first started following him to meetings. Perhaps out of boredom, since he doesn't seem particularly invested in any cause.

Except boredom didn't keep a man around for two years. Boredom didn't cause him to keep offering assistance, to keep trying, to continue doggedly down a path that seems to want to throw him off to one side or the other at every step.

Boredom didn't lead a man to die beside you.

_Mine._ Enjolras' voice is quiet but determined, and the memory of Grantaire's hand in his collapses, fades back. _That memory is mine, not yours. Focus on Grant, Eric, not on Grantaire._

_But they're the same. _Eric draws a long, slow breath. _They're the same._

_The same and yet not, just like you and me. Decide based on who he is now, Eric, not on who he was._

Who he is now, who he was then, it's all intertwined, all tangled together. Eric's stood as a silent shadow within Enjolras while Grantaire dies beside them, over and over, and he sees the same devotion, the same loyalty in Grant.

_I want you to be right._

Grant's words echo in his mind, the memory almost as sharp and clear as a thought from Enjolras.

It was the first time Grant ever said anything like that to him. They haven't had many quiet discussions like they did that morning. Eric's usually too busy, Grant too drunk, their paths only intersecting because Grant keeps placing himself in Eric's way… and because Eric keeps allowing it happen.

_Why didn't you send him away?_ Eric asks the question of Enjolras. _If he ever betrayed you, if he ever turned on the Amis… why did you risk having someone next to you who didn't seem to want to be there?_

_He…_ Enjolras hesitates, his thoughts a quiet mass of turmoil and uncertainty. _He wouldn't betray us. I knew that, as surely as I knew none of the others would. There are many things I wouldn't trust him with, but the others, our lives… I trusted him in that regard._

_You trusted him. Because he does believe in something—in us, yes, but more than that, in our friends. He believes in friendship, in trust, accepts risks for friendship that some men balk at accepting even for ideals._ Eric frowns, trying to untangle the knot that is their relationship to this man._ You gave him chances right up until the end—you sent him out to recruit, before the uprising, despite how often he'd failed in the years before._

_He asked for an opportunity._ If Enjolras had control of their body, his shoulders would rise in a helpless, confused shrug. _He begged for it, determined that he could do the job. I… gave him the opportunity._

_He wants us to be right. He can't believe it—something's happened in his life, he's told me a bit about it this time around—but he simply can't believe in people, in progress, in the possibility of a bright future. _Eric shakes his head. _But there's a part of him that still wants to believe in it—a part that's latched onto us, that wants to see us succeed. And so he keeps trying._

_Yes._ There is a fond note to Enjolras' thoughts, though touched with exasperation. _He always keeps trying._

_And he is beautiful when he tries._ Eric thinks back on the last few days, on Grant focused, determined, sitting beside him, _helping_ him. He doesn't mean to call up the memory of the barricade again, but it is a shining moment, doubt transfigured into belief, and his fingers clench tight around a hand that isn't there.

_Beautiful when he tries, as all men are._ Enjolras draws him back out of the memory gently, reclaiming what is his, though there's no censor in his thoughts. _And Grantaire was radiant when he succeeded._

_I want to help him. I want to see him succeed._ Biting down on his lip, Eric waits for Enjolras to voice what they both know.

_You can't save him by sleeping with him, any more than you've been able to save him by living with him or being his friend._ The words aren't sharp, just truthful. _If you do this, Eric, let it be because you want it._

_Our bond—his and mine—it's different from the bonds I have with the others. I don't know… I don't know if this is the right kind of different, though._ Drawing a deep breath, Eric allows himself to smile slightly. _When I say I don't know if I want this, I mean I don't know. I could find that I hate it. I've never tried anything like this._

_But you're curious. _Enjolras hesitates. _A curiosity that would have extended to the others, if any of them approached you?_

_Yes. _There's no hesitation for this response. _If Con or Cori or Finny or any of the others wanted something physical, had asked me… I likely would have tried it. For any of the Independents, I would have tried._

_You're willing to try when it's someone you already care about, already love, to assuage your curiosity and see if you can give them something they desire and need in return. _Enjolras considers the situation, his mind rifling through possibilities, listing all the reasons Eric's already thought of that this could be dangerous. _If this doesn't work… it's going to be a blow to him._

_Yes. But if it does work…_ Possibilities unfurl before his eyes. It will be different, having a queer identity that's easily seen, that's recognized by the broader community immediately. He'll have to work even harder to make sure his identity as asexual isn't glossed over and ignored. But if it works out, if he and Grant can stand together, side by side… _We've never been ruled by fear or doubt before, Enjolras. I'll be honest with him, and if it doesn't bother you, I'd like to try._

_It's… strange to consider._ Enjolras gives a mental shrug. _But it is your life, Eric, not mine, and if this is what you want to try… I will not stand in your way._

Finally opening his eyes, Eric smiles at Grant. "Yes. I am definitely still interested. I can't promise it'll be anywhere near normal. I can't promise anything physical between us will work out—I really don't know how my body and mind will react. But if you understand that, if you're willing to accept that possibility, I would be very happy to experiment with you."

"Oh, thank god. I thought, for a minute…" Grant lets out a breath that's half-laugh and half-sigh. "I understand. You're who you are, what you are, and I'm fine with that, as long as nothing we try will hurt you or Enjolras. And I'll try, I will try so damn hard to be the type of person you deserve, I promise."

"Be the person I know you can be." Eric reaches out, allowing a few strands of Grant's hair to slide between his fingers. "Be radiant, Grant. I've seen the potential there."

Grant shrugs, his eyes falling to the floor, though he leans toward Eric's touch. "I'll just be happy if I can reflect a little bit of the sun."

Settling down on the bed next to Grant, Eric studies the other man, one eyebrow arching slowly as Grant continues to look anywhere but at his eyes. "So?"

"So?" Grant's eyes dart up to meet his briefly and then dart away again. "Uh… what do we do now?"

"We sleep. Because I do still have a shadow to kill." Reaching out once more to trace locks of Grantaire's hair, Eric allows a full smile to break across his face. "Though if you wanted to, I think we could spare the time for a kiss."

"Oh. Wow." Grant grins, his tongue showing at the corner of his mouth for a moment before he looks away again. "You're sure?"

Nodding, Eric watches his boyfriend. Ah, but that's a strange word to think in relation to himself. "If you want."

Grant reaches out tentatively, one hand taking Eric's in a firm embrace while the other slowly, hesitantly buries itself in Eric's hair. Eric watches as Grant's face comes closer, Grant's breathing picking up, a faint flush touching Grant's cheeks… and then Grant laughs, a self-deprecating sound, and shakes his head.

Eric frowns. They haven't even kissed. He can't possibly have done something wrong yet. "What?"

"You're watching me. Like… oh, I don't know, a hawk and a rabbit, or a scientist and a particularly interesting little experimental subject." Grant shrugs. "It's… a bit weird."

"Oh." Eric considers the information. "You would prefer if I close my eyes?"

"I… it might make it a bit easier for me this first time, yeah."

Nodding, Eric closes his eyes. He doesn't mind, really. He still has things to consider—the heat of Grant's hand in his, their fingers fitting together in a way that is achingly, hauntingly familiar now. The feel of Grant's fingers in his hair, somehow managing to be both possessive and shy, pulling on his hair while drawing away from the actual skin of his head and neck. The sound of Grant's breathing, getting faster, rougher, more ragged by the second.

The feel of stubble against his cheek, a sharp prickle, warm breath against his lips, and then Grant's mouth is against his.

It's awkward. Eric knows that even though he has very little experience to refer to. Grant starts off too fierce, pulls away almost immediately as though in fear. Eric tries to pull him back, to even out the kiss, but he has to think before his body responds, making his movements slower than they should be, and he and Grant don't ever quite match each other's pressure.

It's still more of a pleasant than an unpleasant experience, though, and Eric smiles as he rests his head against Grant's shoulder and opens his eyes, taking in Grant's profile.

"Um…" Grant swallows, hard. "Was that too awful?"

"No." Eric squeezes the hand that is still tangled with his. "It wasn't awful at all. I enjoyed it."

"Really?" A tentative, almost awe-struck smile forms on Grant's face, and his free hand runs through Eric's hair.

"Really." Raising his own hand, Eric traces the square line of Grant's jaw, traditionally masculine, the rough stubble under his fingers pricking. "I think I like the stubble."

"Ah…" Grant laughs. "I'll keep that in mind."

"We should go to bed, though." Eric pulls away from Grant with a reluctance he didn't expect, though he should have. He likes being close to people; he likes feeling their warmth against him.

Standing, he moves swiftly to the light switch and flicks it off. By the time he gets back to the bed, Grant's in his usual position, and Eric takes up his, leaving the standard amount of space between him.

He's barely stretched out before Grant's hand touches his shoulder, lightly. "If you wanted to… I don't know if you'd be comfortable with it… but you could… you could put your arm around me now, if you wanted."

Eric hesitates for a moment before reaching over and laying his arm tentatively across Grant's chest. He can't see Grant's face in the dark, but he can hear Grant sigh, feel his chest rise and fall with the breath, and his body slowly relaxes, his head cradled against Grant's shoulder.

It's comfortable.

He likes it.

Smiling, Eric closes his eyes and waits for sleep to take him.

XXX

Jona slides into bed next to her, and Maria wakes from her light doze to wrap her arms around him and pull him close.

"Is Jean all right?" Lyle's voice, sleep-slurred, comes from behind her, one of his arms reaching over her chest so his hand can rest against Jona's arm.

"As all right as we could ask him to be, I think." Jona speaks quietly into Maria's hair, his arms wrapping around her, sandwiching her between him and Lyle.

It's too hot for this to be comfortable for long, but right now it's perfect, and Maria relishes the contact of both of their skins against hers. "Do you know what happened?"

"I think…" Jona hesitates. "This is pure speculation, so far, but I think that he went through something similar to what happened to Eric this evening. He went chasing after Jehan, and he found him, but he hadn't had the chance to adapt at all. He hurt himself trying to connect with Jehan, and he says he can hear _others_ trying to wake, other lives, whenever he tries to think about it too much."

"But he can remember." The words tumble out before Maria can stop them. "He remembers who he was—who you all were."

"Yeah." Jona's lips caress her forehead, his voice quiet and husky. "But he hurt himself, Maria. He bled all over the place. He was pretty much catatonic for over ten minutes. Please, please don't try to follow his example."

"You don't have to be Musichetta, love." Lyle's mouth nuzzles against the side of her neck. "You've been amazing, and we love you just the way you are."

She knows that they do. How could she not know it, lying here between them, both of them touching her? It doesn't change the fact that she desperately wants to know if she was Musichetta, to understand on a more fundamental level what they're going through, to be able to actually participate in this battle that they're waging every night. "Did Jean see the shadow?"

Jona nods, a brief shudder running through his body. "He did. Or, rather, Jehan did. It tormented him like it has us."

"Well, then, I'm not in any danger." Maria tries to keep her voice cheerful. "Because I still haven't had any shadows tormenting me. I just keep mourning my fallen lovers in my dreams, and that could just be paranoia because of… well… everything."

Her voice trails off, weariness replacing the cheer she wanted to show. They've been handling things well, but it's been hard, still, trying to piece together an idea of what's going on and how they can actually fight and win.

"We should try to get some sleep." Lyle's lips press against the base of her skull. "We'll be talking about all this in the morning, I'm sure, and you look exhausted, Jona."

"I'm tired. Relieved that everyone's relatively all right, but really, really tired." Jona snuggles in closer to her.

Holding him more tightly to her, Maria wraps one of her legs around his. She might not be able to help him in the dreams, but she can hold him now, when he's tired and sore and has had to be strength for others. "We'll deal with it in the morning, then. Let's enjoy it just being us for the night."

Jona sighs, a contented, happy sound, and curls his body into hers. Lyle continues to hold her from behind, though his arm is reaching across her to touch Jona.

It's the most comfortable she's been in days.

It doesn't matter whether the shadow stalks her or not, whether she finds her memories or not.

As long as she can do this, as long as she can be here like this for her boys, she's happy.

XXX

Musichetta cries.

She's the only one in the ruined café. There aren't bloodstains on the floor anymore. The broken stairs, the broken bodies, they have all been cleared away, leaving emptiness behind.

If broken lives and broken hearts could be erased as quickly, would she do it? Would she take emptiness over this terrible aching loss and grief? Would she take numbness over agony?

Perhaps she will. Perhaps she has, because she remembers dressing, eating, working, _living_, but it all feels unreal, here. All that is real here is loss, a loss that even those who scrubbed away the blood and mourned the dead with her couldn't share or understand.

And now she is alone. Now she courts questioning and worse from the police, staying here when the other mourners are gone, drawn back over and over, and her boys wouldn't want this. Her boys would want her to move on, to find others to love and live with, to perhaps find others to fight with in the ways that she can, but it's so hard. Especially here, in this place she can't seem to escape, drenched in the shadows of the fading sun, it's hard to imagine loving again.

(_Shadows… there is danger in the shadows…_)

She closes her eyes, trying to stem the flow of tears, to wipe them from her face. What would Joly say if he saw her like this? He would run a hand from her forehead down her cheek, checking for fever and comforting her in the same gesture, and his voice would ask so quietly and forcefully what was wrong, in that tone it was almost impossible not to answer.

She can almost hear the words, see the concern that would draw all his features into a sharp frown of dismay, the image so clear in the darkness behind her eyes, and the tears only come faster.

(_Pain… the shadows feed on pain…_)

Sniffling, trying to find a modicum of the self-respect and dignity that has always been hers, she squeezes her eyes more tightly closed. She will remember Joly's concern, his gentleness, but she will not let it be something that hurts her. She will not defile his memory like that.

She needs to laugh. She needs to accept what has happened, to find a way forward despite it all. She needs to shrug off the horror, the terror, and find the joy in life again.

_Say hello to my lady Fortuna._ Bossuet's words, his quick, fierce grin in her mind's eye, and her breath freezes in her throat because they seem so real. _She's been up to her usual tricks, but I don't mind. I was never meant to live past thirty, anyway, not with the luck I had. Perhaps she only saved me from a slow death by consumption or cancer._

Surging to her feet, Musichetta whirls, snarling, to survey the empty room.

There is no one there. She knew there wouldn't be, just as she knows Laisgle wouldn't be cruel enough to mock another over grief. Not like that, at least, not in a way that would hurt instead of help.

(_The shadows, stay away from the shadows…_)

The shadows have grown deeper, thicker, and she shivers as she studies them. There is something unnatural about them, now, something threatening in the way they have gathered around her. The sun is close to setting, true, but it's almost as though the shadows are surrounding her, lapping at her feet like monstrous dogs.

Brushing her face clear once more with the sleeve of her dress, she backs slowly toward the door, not wanting to take her eyes away from the darkness, though she couldn't tell anyone why.

_Ah, I suppose I played my hand too loudly there._

The whisper comes from behind her, a cold rush of graveyard air against Musichetta's neck, and she turns, one hand lashing out as Laisgle taught her.

Her hand passes through air, chilled and reeking of blood—such a familiar smell now, so terrible, and her ears hear the buzzing of flies though it must only be the rushing of blood through her veins.

The monster stands just outside her reach, a collection of shadows in the shape of a man, blocking out the wan light that should be coming through the torn-apart door. It is taller than her, taller than any man she has ever known, and she takes an instinctive step back as it smiles down at her.

Its eyes are red, the color of fresh blood, but they seem to flicker and glow with a firelight gleam of madness and hate. Its mouth is a slash in the darkness, its teeth white fangs, serrated and sharp. One hand reaches toward her, claw-tipped, and she retreats further.

(_Oh god oh god oh god, it's here, it's here, stay away from it—_)

_This is a different flavor._ The creature seems to swell, and she realizes after a moment that it's inhaled. _Your despair, your grief, your loneliness, your isolation, those were all delicious, have done well to heal me, but terror, ah, terror is something that I love. Desperate terror, despairing terror, the spark of light and life drowning in the hopelessness of the world… that is the sweetest taste to me, little one._

"What are you?" Musichetta crosses herself, her hand trembling. For a moment a new despair rises—is this punishment for what they've done, for the hubris they've had? Joly and Laisgle had agreed with her that what they did, what they shared, the love they nurtured was no sin, that no just god would punish them for it, but there is no word other than devil for the creature before her.

_I am your judge, your jury, your executioner. I am the balance in the world, the counter to the lights that you loved._ It moves forward as it speaks, slowly, methodically, its eyes unblinking. _I could have forgotten you, you know. You weren't one of the ones I marked deeply, but I always make sure to trawl widely when I hunt battlefields. How does it feel, to know that the last gift they give you is my presence?_

It hisses the words, its mouth widening, pointed teeth showing more clearly as it reaches for her.

The words are intended to hurt. They are intended to frighten and dishearten. She knows that from the way it stalks toward her, the way the flames in its eyes burn brighter.

It may be privy to her grief, to her loss and her love that could so easily become shame, but clearly this monster doesn't truly know her all that well.

"Stay away from me, demon-spawn." She snarls the word, slapping at its hand and dodging around it, seeking to reach an exit.

(_Yes. Fight it. Hurt it. It's hurt them, it's hurt our boys, their friends, so badly, and if we can hurt it, if we can kill it—_)

Between one breath and the next the creature is gone, melding with the shadows at its feet, and Musichetta turns, eyes flashing frantically around the deserted battleground. Fury as well as fear causes her arms to tremble.

The shadows are lengthening in the room. The sun is almost set, will leave her in total darkness if she doesn't leave soon.

Turning to the door, she freezes.

There should be nothing there. There should be empty hinges sticking into empty space, the shattered boards that had been the door cleared away with the rest of the debris. Instead the wall continues, unblemished, unbroken, leaving her trapped.

She doesn't wait before darting to the window. She will not be trapped. She will not be—

There is no warning. The windows are simply gone, and she is left in darkness, total, absolute, a darkness that swiftly begins to reek of blood, both fresh and old.

_You are mine, little one._

A hand caresses her face, and she staggers away from it, from the sting of claws and cold in her flesh. She doesn't whimper. She will not let this thing see her fear. Crouching down, she feels along the floor for any weapon, any loose board or stone that hasn't been cleared away.

_You are mine, to toy with and feed off as I will._ A clawed hand grasps hers, knives like shards of ice cutting into her palm. _And I am strong tonight._

(_Don't panic. We can fight it. If we work together, we can fight it._)

Pulling her injured hand back close to her chest, Musichetta forces her ragged breathing to slow. There is a way to fight the beast. She knows that, a knowledge just on the edge of her comprehension. She will not give in to pain or fear. She will not give up. She will not accept this creature or its words.

_I will enjoy breaking you._ Teeth sink into her ear, quickly, there and then gone, a parody of affection that draws a cry from her despite her best efforts.

Her fingers find nothing to attack with, her scrabbling hands only collecting dirt. Dirt can be a weapon, though, and she scoops up the small handful and waits for the beast to come close again.

_Would you like me to wear their skins?_ The voice is Joly's, and tears begin to slide from her eyes again.

It doesn't matter if she cries. She can't see to aim, anyway.

_I can make it pleasant, between._ The touch of the beast's hand is still cold, but it's a cold in the shape of familiar fingers, a hand that she's longed to feel on her shoulder just like that, and oh, if only this could be true. _I can give you moments of love, to make the moments of agony that much sweeter to my tongue._

She waits until its hand is clenched onto her shoulder, its claws pricking at her skin despite the guise it purports to have donned. Then she strikes, the handful of dust toward where its eyes should be—where its eyes _are_, a fire-flicker of red in the darkness if she looks just right—and follows it with her fingernails.

She thinks she sees sparks, shades of brown and green. She thinks, briefly, that she hears another's voice in her head, an English voice, though she doesn't have time to focus on or try to translate the words.

She doesn't have time for much, because the creature _howls_, a bellow that rakes at her ears, and clawed hands are suddenly holding her arms tight behind her back as light blinds her eyes.

_They died._ The words are a sharp hiss in her ear as she sees bodies laid before her—Joly, Bossuet, sweet Jean, clever Courfeyrac, cheerful Bahorel, all their friends, all the dear dreamers. _They died, in blood and piss and terror, and this was only the first time. They've died over and over again, little child, because it's what people like them _do_. I am saving them. I am saving you. And I am saving all the others they would infect with their poison._

She shakes her head, a mute denial, and struggles against the arms that hold her.

_I will enjoy breaking you, but not tonight._ The arms are gone, and she stumbles forward, into the light of a bloody, smoke-filled street. _Tonight I hunt richer prey. Warn them, if you like. Tell them I will break their leader, their rallying point._

A corpse lies in the street, and she has a brief glimpse of blond hair, blue eyes, the quiet hurricane that has been the center of the revolution for her lovers and their friends, but then the body shifts, becomes Joly, and she backs away from it.

_Tell them there is nothing they can do about it. _The shadow watches her, a lion toying with a mouse, its red eyes flickering with bright flame, and the scent of blood is overwhelming. _Let them try. Tell them to wake him. Tell them to do everything in their power. And watch them all know despair, burning, lost despair, because the darkness will always swallow the light, no matter how brightly it shines._

She would protest. She would face the beast again, to deny it, to prove it wrong, but there isn't time.

The world fractures, fragments, and she has glimpses of Joly's face, of Laisgle's, before everything fades into the quiet dimness of unconsciousness.

XXX

"Maria! Maria, wake up. Come on, love, look at me." Lyle's lips crash against her mouth, fierce and frightened. "Come _on_, love, talk to me. How bad's her hand, Jona?"

"Not bad. They're puncture wounds, but they aren't deep. Just deep enough to draw blood." Jona's face swims into focus, and Maria tilts her head to frown down at her hand, where his fingers are holding a piece of fabric against her skin. "Maria? Are you conscious?"

"Musichetta?" Lyle's voice hesitates on the name, though he says it cleanly, with the proper accent.

(_My loves, my sweet, fierce loves…_)

A sense of relief so potent it brings tears to her eyes sweeps through her, and Maria sits up and launches herself at her boys, driving them both back onto the bed in a tangle of arms and legs with her.

They're alive. Oh, they're alive, and they're with her, and she's so insanely happy to see them. Why did she think they were dead? Why did that terrible dream—

The dream.

The fear.

The _knowledge_.

She knows the proper accent. She knows the proper way to say their names—their old names.

_Musichetta?_ She closes her eyes, a hand over both of her boys' mouths to stop their flow of questions, terror and soaring ecstasy tangling together in her heart. _Can you hear me? Are you there?_

A faint stirring is the only response, a sense of confusion and uncertainty just on the edge of her awareness.

She could hunt it down. She could chase the memory fragments that she has, that faint sense of _another_, and drag Musichetta back into full awareness. Jean did it; there's no reason she can't, too.

Except…

Except it's dangerous. It hurt Jean; it might hurt her. She has her answer, now, and if it takes a little longer to truly, properly wake Musichetta, so be it.

Especially since she can't afford to distract them by bleeding right now. Not when the shadow told her what it's planning on doing.

Opening her eyes, she scrambles off her boys. "Call Eric. Now. Wake him up. The shadow's planning something involving him, and I don't think it's good."

Jona and Lyle hesitate barely a second before scrambling for their phones.

"Grant?" Jona's eyes find Lyle's as his fingers close on his phone, set within easy reach of the bed.

"Eric." Lyle nods, struggling to disentangle his phone from the pocket of yesterday's jeans.

Maria gets the feeling that an entire conversation occurred in those two quick names. She doesn't quite understand it, but she doesn't need to.

Both men return to her side as soon as they have their phones at their ears. Lyle takes her left hand, Jona her right, and she tries hard not to worry as they wait for someone to pick up on the other end.

Hopefully she warned them in time.


	25. Part Twenty-Five: The Burning Dark

**Author's Note:** Thanks to everyone who's still reading and reviewing and being awesome. This chapter definitely gets a warning for dark themes and twisted versions of characters—the Shadow is after Enjolras, and it doesn't fight fair.

_Part Twenty-Five: The Burning Dark_

They are going to die.

There's no doubt about that now. There was hope, before Enjolras made his reconnaissance, that they would win. The men were bursting with enthusiasm, the city had rallied to their side the day before, they had comported themselves well in battle, and the Amis and their allies had connections among the military that should have come to their aid.

Should have, but will not, are not, and he has done what needs to be done. He has ensured that the men know the truth of what they face, given them the option of surrender, and they have chosen to fight. They have chosen the protest of corpses, and after saving those he can, the only thing left to do is ensure that it is the most glorious protest that he can make it. Every life will count. Every man will shine as brightly as possible, a beacon for those who follow.

But first they have to wait. First they have to stay here, trapped, hungry and tired and thirsty despite all his efforts to encourage sleep and ration resources. They will do it, because they are brave men all, and it has been his honor to be their leader, but it is getting harder on them as the hours stretch on.

He cannot save them.

He cannot give them the Republic that they deserve, that they've dreamt of, that they are paying for with their blood.

But he can take their minds away from this place, at least for a few moments, and perhaps give them a bit more peace in that way.

Raising his head, lifting his voice, Enjolras addresses his men. "Citizens, do you picture the future to yourselves? The streets of cities inundated with light..."

The words come easily to him. The vision is clear in his mind, the sun-bright beacon he has always striven toward, and he can tell from the way that Courfeyrac smiles at him, the way that Feuilly nods approvingly, that the others can see and take pleasure in sharing his vision, even here.

Allowing himself to get caught up in the rhythm of the speech, in the glory of the world that will some day be, Enjolras doesn't notice the temperature start to climb, or the shadows start to thicken around him.

XXX

Grant doesn't know what wakes him first, the clanging hammer of his cell phone as the rock song that is Jona's ring tone goes off or Eric suddenly speaking directly into his ear.

Eric's words are in French, but they're pronounced clearly, cleanly, as though he were speaking to a crowd, and Grantaire immediately understands them, offering a translation for Grant without even having to be asked.

"—light, light! Everything comes from light, and to it everything returns. Citizens, the nineteenth century is great, but the twentieth century will be happy."

"Oh, man." Grant disentangles himself from Eric's arms, wincing, not sure if it's from the meaning of the words or the interrupted sleep. A second ring-tone starts up, this one a simple pre-programmed chiming. "Eric, Enjolras, that's for you. Come on, Eric, wake up. We're apparently needed."

Eric doesn't stir, continuing to speak in quiet, clear French as Grant carefully reaches over him to fumble his own phone up and flip it open. Grant realizes he forgot to look at who's calling once he has the phone to his ear, but it doesn't matter. There are only so many people who would be calling them at three thirty in the morning. "Hello?"

Eric's voice still hasn't faltered, his eyes still closed as he continues, though in a slightly quieter tone, a normal speaking volume, still in French. "—we shall no longer have to fear a conquest, an invasion, an usurpation—"

"Eric. Wake him up." Jona's voice is sharp and direct over the phone.

"Okay." Grant blinks, dread starting to build in him as he reaches down to shake Eric's shoulder again. There's no response, and Grant lets out a soft curse.

Eric should have woken up by now. Eric's always a lighter sleeper than him, even this past summer when exhaustion dogged his steps, and between the phones and Grant moving around he should already be vertical.

"He's not waking up. Come on, Eric." Shaking Eric's shoulder once more, Grant hisses out a breath of dismay. Eric's body feels warm, too warm, his skin fever-hot under Grant's hand. "Jona, he's speaking in French and he won't wake up and he has a fever and…"

Blood.

Grant knows what it is, the dark red stain spreading across the light grey of Eric's T-shirt, but it doesn't make sense and so he can't process it for a minute. Eric isn't screaming. Eric isn't fighting. So there's no possible way that Eric's had his soul broken, that he's bleeding from his chest.

But that's blood. Reaching down tentatively, Grant touches the moist patch, smearing the red liquid across his fingers. More seems to collect with every passing second.

"—be no more events." Eric's voice stumbles, slows, but he doesn't wake up. "We shall be happy."

"Grant?" Jona's voice is calm, soothing, drawing Grant back out of his panicked reverie. "Grant, what's happening?"

"I don't know." Grant whispers the word. "There's blood on his chest and he's feverish, really feverish, I think it's getting worse, and I can't get him to wake up, Jona."

"His chest's bleeding? How badly? Grant, if he's bleeding badly you need to find the injury and put pressure on it." Jona draws a ragged breath. "You may need to call 911, Grant. If we can't get him to wake up, if he's bleeding badly and he's feverish… see how bad the bleeding is, see how bad the fever is, all right?"

"All right." Grant shoves the phone in the crook of his shoulder, scrambling to his feet and lifting Eric's limp, unprotesting torso up in order to slide the bloody shirt off him.

Heat rolls off of Eric's body in waves, and his voice is starting to become hoarse, a breathless, distressed pant of warmth against Grant's neck. "—these are… terrible purchases of… future…"

"No." Grant speaks in English, voice firm, loud, though if jostling Eric's clothing off him isn't enough to wake him he doesn't know what will be. "No, Eric. Nothing terrible's going to happen. You're going to be fine."

Perhaps the reassurance would have sounded a little bit better if Grant could have believed it himself.

XXX

Enjolras feels like his blood is on fire.

The June dawn is warm, but not this warm, not a reason for his body to be drenched in sweat. He stumbles in his words, having to lean down, to rest his hand against the barricade and attempt to draw a full breath.

What's wrong with him? Why does he suddenly feel like this, like it's hard to think, like it's hard to breathe, like his skin is on the edge of bursting into flame?

The physical discomfort he could handle, perhaps. Illness happens, though it rarely happens to him, and though Combeferre has declared him one of the man's most frustrating patients he knows his body well enough to usually know when he needs rest.

But he shouldn't be at that point. This shouldn't be happening now. He's been fine. And there's something… wrong about the way he feels, something _unclean_ about the feel of the sweat dripping down his face, coursing down his neck.

Or perhaps the unclean feeling is in his mind, because there are thoughts there that don't belong.

_Die._

_We are all going to die._

There's sorrow in the thoughts, but there's also an almost jubilant madness, a sense of doomed irreverence and despair that he shies away from in horror.

"Enjolras." Combeferre's hand grabs his arm, squeezes tightly, almost painfully, but Enjolras still shifts to lean against the man gratefully.

"Combeferre. I don't feel—"

"This is shameful." Combeferre hisses the words into his ear, too softly for anyone else to hear. "You're frightening them."

It's true. He can see it in the eyes of their men as they watch him, hear it in the murmurs that are starting to rise, and that's not what he wanted to do. That's not what he's _supposed_ to do, not how this was supposed to go, and vertigo joins the fire, buckling his knees.

Courfeyrac's arm under his shoulder keeps him from falling, and Courfeyrac and Combeferre drag him into the Corinth while he struggles simply to breathe and make sense of the chaos in his head.

There's something he's supposed to remember.

There's someone who's supposed to help him with this.

"—you _idiot_, Enjolras, we can't afford this right now." Courfeyrac's words are an angry, disgruntled hiss as they lower him to the floor, Enjolras' back coming to rest against the wall. "Pray that you're dying, because if you're not—"

"He's not." Combeferre's hand feels wonderfully cool against his forehead, and Enjolras moves to lean into the touch, but Combeferre pulls away with a frustrated frown. "No fever, no injuries. What's the matter with you? I expected better."

Enjolras swallows, trying to draw a breath without panting, his blood still boiling in his veins, skin still feeling taut and burnt. Is it true that he has no fever? Can Combeferre really not see that there's something wrong with him? "I'm sorry. I just… I feel terrible, Combeferre. I feel…"

He doesn't have words to describe how he feels. He shouldn't _need_ words, not with Combeferre, not about something so obvious. What's happening? What's—

"He's afraid."

The words turn his boiling blood to ice, because the voice that speaks belongs to a dead man.

"So very afraid." Jehan sighs, leaning against Bahorel, his chest a bloody mess glimpsed in flashes through the holes in his crimson-drenched clothing. "Fear is a wonderful emotion to explore, but did he have to choose now to do the exploring?"

Bahorel shakes his head, placing a comradely arm around Jehan. "We died for _this_? We died for a broken leader and a lost cause? Ah, but I should have chosen better where to lay my allegiances."

"I am not afraid." Enjolras hauls himself to his feet, using one shaking arm against the wall to steady himself, his eyes fixed on the ghosts standing behind Combeferre and Courfeyrac. "I might be ill, but I'm not afraid, and your deaths had great meaning. We're going to ensure—"

Courfeyrac's hand slides over his mouth, stops his words, Courfeyrac's body cool against his. Not as cool as the ice in Courfeyrac's tone, though, a bitter disappointment that slices at Enjolras. "Damn it, man, there's no one there. If you had to lose your mind, did you have to choose _now_? Couldn't you wait a few more hours, when it won't matter whether we're sane or not anyway because we'll all be dead?"

"You could have sent one of us away, you know." Combeferre's words are also still soft, still quiet, his hand almost gentle as it feels at Enjolras' forehead again. "You could have saved at least one of the Amis."

"No. I couldn't." Enjolras shrinks back from Combeferre's touch, dragging his eyes away from the ghosts who continue to watch him with disdain. "It wasn't my place to choose. I left the choice to the men, and they saved those whose families needed them most. You stood by me. You agreed with their decisions!"

"They would have listened to you if you suggested one of us go, to lead the revolution again another day." Courfeyrac's tone is scathing. "But you didn't, and who are we to challenge your authority? A united front, Enjolras, that's what they need at a time like this, not a mad leader who can't even plan ahead."

The ghosts nod their silent agreement, and Enjolras presses back against the wall, his breath short and shallow in his throat.

There is something wrong with this.

He knows it, on a fundamental level, knows that this doesn't make sense, but it's hard to think, hard to remember, there is something important he is supposed to remember when the shadows stretch so long and hungry around him—

_We are all going to die._

_We are all going to die alone._

_There is no possibility of love in this world._

The thoughts crash against him, a hammer blow of agony, and he can't bite back a whimper as he places a hand to his chest, over a heart that feels like it might explode at any moment.

"I'm sorry." He whispers the words, a soft exhalation as he tries to make his eyes focus on the men standing before him.

The apology doesn't soften the expressions on his friends' faces, the bitter disappointment and frustration and despair. The words don't ease the chaos in his head, the burning in his blood that's going to engulf him whole at any moment—if anything, they seem to make it worse, his soul howling that this is _wrong_ while every sense he has tells him this is true, and he can't string thoughts together coherently enough to come up with any theories that make sense.

The shadows seem to deepen around him as Courfeyrac turns away with a short, sharp curse, leaving him to Combeferre's care.

XXX

"I'm sorry."

"_No._" Grantaire snarls the negation, seizing control of their body without thought or asking, tears pricking at his eyes. "No, Enjolras, you've nothing to be sorry for. Please wake. Please, Enjolras."

He's not going to wake. Grant knows it, and so does Grantaire. Blinking tears of frustration and terror from his eyes, Grant shoves Grantaire aside again so he can read the thermometer and focus on his conversation with Jona. "One oh five, one oh five and a half, maybe it's… no, it's climbing again, one oh six…"

"All right. It's all right, Grant." Jona's voice is soothing and calm. "And the blood?"

"It keeps appearing." Grant uses Eric's shirt to smear more of it off his chest. "It's not _from_ anything, it just keeps appearing on his chest, it's…"

Trailing off, Grant allows his eyes to watch the blood as it appears in slow, curving loops on Eric's pale skin. He'd been so desperate to have it gone, to see the source and stem the flow that he hadn't paid much attention to the way it appeared at first, but if he watches it the trails seem to follow lines, to form arches, to form…

"Words." He bites out the realization, barely managing to still his hand. "The blood's forming _words_, Jona, in French. It says… it says _die with me. We will die._ Jona, I don't understand."

"I don't, either." Jona's voice rises for a moment before being brought back down to his usual timbre. "All right. We can't deal with this, Grant. A fever that high's dangerous. You need to call 911. Get an ambulance over there, let them do what they can for his body."

"What about until then? What about the blood? What about—"

"Keep trying to wake him. Try to get the blood off him, because that's going to be hell to explain to the authorities. Maybe… maybe try to cool him off. Cool water, cool cloths, nothing too cold, too cold and we can make things worse, but cool should be all right."

"Can I move him?" Grant grabs Eric's phone in his other hand, forcing his fingers to punch in the emergency numbers. It shouldn't be this hard. They taught four-year-olds to do this. Why does it take him three times to get it right? "I mean, can I throw him in the shower or do I get ice or—"

Jona cuts him off at the same time that the 911 operator picks up.

"I don't know."

"This is 911, what's your emergency?"

For a moment he can't answer, his tongue tangled, his mind caught between the two conversations and the muttered words that Eric's saying.

"I'll meet you at the hospital." Jona's voice is firm and authoritative once more, a lifeline to cling to, and Grant manages to start breathing again. "We all will, Grant—Lyle's been calling the others. Now, I'm going to hang up and you're going to tell dispatch your address. All right?"

"All right." He's barely murmured the response before his phone goes dead.

"—there? Sir, are you still there? Can you answer me?" The dispatcher's voice is female, the words quick but controlled.

"I'm here. My emergency's my roommate—he's got a sky-high fever and I can't get him to wake up. He's talking in his sleep, and—"

"What's your address, sir?"

Grant rattles off his address, his name, Eric's name, answering the easy questions without even thinking about them. His eyes stay fixed on the blood that continues to form across Eric's chest, and he uses the blood-drenched shirt to rub out the words as soon as they form. He tries to keep his hand gentle, because he doesn't want to hurt Eric, but he hates the sight of the crimson letters crawling their way across Eric's pale skin.

"Sorry…" Enjolras' voice is a soft whisper, almost a whimper. "Combeferre, I did… I tried… I swear, I'm… right… you're right… revolution first… sorry…"

"No. You never did anything you need to apologize for. Please, Eric, wake up."

"—attention to me, sir." The dispatcher's voice in his ear drags him back to the present. "Has your roommate been ill?"

"No. He was fine when we went to bed this evening, but now he won't wake up." Now a monster's somehow trapped him in its nightmare world, is stalking his soul, and though Grant has a front-row seat there's absolutely nothing he can do to interfere. "When's the ambulance going to be here?"

"As soon as they can be. You just need to stay calm. How are you feeling, Grant?"

A brief, short laugh escapes Grant's mouth before he can stop it. How's he feeling? What kind of question is that right now? "I'm fine. I'm not the one who needs help. I'm just the useless person watching."

"Hurts…" Eric's head shifts to the side, his expression pinching into a grimace of pain, the most movement he's shown. "Combeferre, it hurts… I can't… I can't…"

Red letters trail their way up the unblemished skin of Eric's neck, one word on the left, two on the right.

_Die alone._

_Hopeless._

Eric's body temperature seems to jump a few degrees, something Grant didn't think could possibly happen, his skin burning against Grant's hand as Grant stares in horror at the words.

And then Eric's back arches, his limbs start shaking, and Grant feels the phone fall from his hand but he doesn't care.

Eric's having a seizure.

Eric's having a _seizure_, his brain baking in his skull, his soul being tortured by the shadow-monster, and Grant needs to _do something_.

The seizure only lasts a few seconds, but it's a few seconds too many. High fevers caused brain damage, death, probably other terrible things that Grant could think of if his mind was capable of thinking right now, and he needs to get Eric's temperature down. He needs to get the blood off him.

Gathering Eric's body into his arms, obliterating the smooth cursive loops of the damn French words on his neck, Grant grunts as he lifts the blond man and hauls him as gently as he can toward the shower.

XXX

Enjolras opens his eyes slowly, blinking, trying to think around the fire raging in his mind and his body. When did he pass out? How long has he been lying on the ground?

There's no one else in the Corinth with him—no one living, at least, though some of the dead have been laid out with as much dignity as they can offer them. The realization that he's alone slowly penetrates his mind, followed a few seconds later by the realization that the sounds outside are those of battle—the report of rifles, the clash of blades, and he needs to be out there.

If his men are fighting, he needs to be out there.

Combeferre left him his carbine and his saber. Perhaps it means that the man isn't too disappointed in him, and Enjolras smiles as he forces his shaking fingers to load the gun. Hauling himself to his feet, he somehow manages to strap the blade to his side, though his vision hazes in and out as he does.

It doesn't matter. If he can kill one of their attackers, save one of his men for even a few more seconds, then whatever effort it takes will be worth it.

He emerges into chaos. Some of their men hold the barricade, but a handful of soldiers have broken through and are engaged with a small cluster of defenders—Feuilly's men, Feuilly busy fighting beside them.

A soldier staggers to his feet, raising a bloody blade, his eyes fixed on Feuilly. He's to Feuilly's left and behind him, and Feuilly is grappling with a man to his right, meaning he most likely doesn't see the danger he's in.

Enjolras' hands are shaking too much for his aim to be accurate, and a shot that was meant to kill instead rips through the soldier's arm, earning a scream and a fountain of blood. The man's too distracted by his injuries to react as Enjolras closes with him and finishes the job, his blade sliding between the man's ribs cleanly, and Enjolras allows the cooling corpse to slide to the ground.

Turning to Feuilly, Enjolras is relieved to see the man unharmed, his opponent also dead on the torn-up dirt. Feuilly turns to him, closes the distance between them, and Enjolras allows himself to relax, smiling. He may not know what's wrong with him, but at least he managed to—

He doesn't see the blade before it sinks into his stomach. He simply feels the cold, looks down to see the hilt of the dagger protruding from his flesh as Feuilly releases the weapon.

"You had no right." Feuilly's voice drips with contempt and disdain. "You _used_ me. You used my story, without permission, without understanding, turning me into just another pretty metaphor in your pointless speech. You can't even manage to stand with us properly now, so don't you _dare_ smile at me, don't you _dare_ think that we're anything alike. Die like all the other miserable rich bastards need to die, crying and alone and useless."

Feuilly's hand shoves Enjolras' shoulder, hard, and Enjolras can't keep himself from staggering back, collapsing against a wall. His blood runs hot and fast down his stomach, down his leg, a scalding river, and combined with everything else it makes it impossible for him to stand.

Wrong.

This is all wrong.

Feuilly wouldn't do this. Including Feuilly's story in his speech had been a way for Enjolras to honor the man, to show his respect for Feuilly, his deep appreciation for the way that Feuilly's worked with them, trusted them, cared for them. There isn't an ounce of hatred in Feuilly's body, though he certainly has faced enough terrible things in his life to lead a man to hate. Instead Feuilly loves all men, embraces all men, and Feuilly wouldn't _do_ this.

But it's been done. He's bleeding—probably dying. He heard the man's words.

How does he reconcile this? What does he do?

How does he manage to _think _around the fire, with the chaos of battle raging all around him?

A short, sharp, achingly familiar cry reaches his ears, and he lifts his head in time to see Feuilly gunned down before a bayonette sinks into the man's chest, stilling his body.

_Die._

_All die._

_Die alone._

_No room for love in this world._

They die in front of him, one by one, his friends, and there is nothing he can do.

There is nothing he can say to remove the disappointment from Courfeyrac's face, the disdain from Combeferre's expression.

_Abandoned._

_Alone._

He is grateful, when the hands first touch him, because at least it is something else, _someone_ else, another person to use as a buffer against the alien thoughts that are pounding through his head with shattering force.

Then claws sink into his chest, teeth sink into his neck, ice starts to slither through the fire that is all-consuming, and he screams his agony to the sky because there is nothing else that he can do.

XXX

The bruises start to bloom across his chest and neck when Eric starts screaming.

The sound is an animal howl, a cry of agony and despair and horror, too loud, too long, barely pausing when Eric draws breath to continue screaming.

Grant thought he had heard the worst sound possible, the cry that had first led him to piece together what was happening to them, but that is a pale imitation of this cry. That was the warning, the lightning before the storm, while this is the raging pounding of the hurricane, and _there is nothing he can do about it._

Water pounds down around them, lukewarm, cool but not cold like Jona had said, and Grant had thought for a moment that it might be working, that it might be helping as Eric's skin seemed to cool under his hands. The floor of the shower where they kneel is red with blood, Eric's shorts and Grant's shirt both soaked with it, and he'd hoped that maybe rinsing off the blood would help to break whatever hold the monster has on Eric.

Apparently not, though, and Grant finds himself screaming Eric's name, though there's no point, the sound drowned out by the sound of Eric's agony, the bruises growing steadily, such a dark purple they're almost black, and Eric is going to die in his arms.

Enjolras is going to die in front of them, without them, and there is nothing they can do about it.

He thinks there are tears, hot and stinging on his cheeks, but the steady beating of the water means he doesn't have to acknowledge them as he continues to scream the name of the man he loves, in French and in English, hoping for a miracle that he knows better than to believe in.

XXX

Cold snakes through him, and Enjolras screams.

It's wrong.

It's so wrong, a violation of all that he is, hatred and despair and doubt threading through him, taking root in him, and even his scream doesn't manage to contain a fraction of the horror that he feels.

_Yes._ The sound is a satisfied moan of pleasure, and something ice-cold licks against his neck as claws dig deeper into his chest, teeth nip hungrily at his shoulder. _Oh, yes, my little firefly, my star in the dark, give me all that you are. Drown in the darkness, and give me all that power for change, for transformation, for conflagration._

He bucks, clawing at the arms that are holding him, ripping at the ice daggers in his chest, trying to move his neck away from the mouth that worries at his flesh and devours his essence.

_They died, Enjolras._ The cold purrs as it curls around him, its hand still fixed in him, invading him, _draining_ him. _They died hating you. They died for nothing. They died pointlessly._

He can't see. He can't breathe. He can't fight, his movements slow, weak, and the scream trails off to a soft whimper.

They died.

He watched them die.

He watched them die while the darkness laughed.

There is something about that. There is something about the shadows, the darkness, something he should be able to remember, something that the burning has been trying to keep him from.

Something about them dying.

The images are etched into his mind, and he calls them up, playing them over and over.

Courfeyrac died, buried under a flood of soldiers, cursing.

Combeferre died, a bayonette in his chest, blood bubbling from his mouth, and though Enjolras had tried to reach for him Combeferre had turned away.

Feuilly died after—

Feuilly…

It doesn't make sense. It doesn't make _sense_, though the cold eating its way through him tries to tell him that it does, that they would turn from him, that they would fear death, that by highlighting Feuilly's difference from the rest of the group he has betrayed the man.

Feuilly died… how?

Feuilly died after his wrist was slit, his blood washing over Enjolras' face in a hot shower.

It isn't what he saw here. It is a different memory, somehow, and it opens onto darkness, onto pain that is no less potent than that which the cold engenders.

It is _cleaner_ pain, though, purer pain, and if there is doubt and hesitancy in that darkness at least it is _his_.

It is _him_.

He thinks he hears the beast howling as he flings all that remains of his mind into the darkness, but he isn't sure, coherent thought completely impossible as he strives to find a way out of this hell.

XXX

Eric wakes to darkness and fire, binding him, holding him, shackling his thoughts and memories and senses.

Where is he? What's happening? Why does he feel _awful_, an aching, empty, cold feeling just beyond the fire that burns through the rest of him?

Cold.

There is cold.

Inside him, underneath the burning pain that binds him, and he struggles against it, angry, afraid, confused.

_Help me._ The plea is barely words, more a sensation of someone grasping through the darkness, reaching for anyone who will respond. _Help me. There's supposed to be someone… please… help me… it's so loud, it's so dark, so many memories, I can't…_

Eric knows that voice, though he's never heard it like this before, hurt and lost, and he struggles harder against his bindings.

He isn't the only one. He can sense it, a stirring in the darkness, images of blood and pain and death that sweep through him with no rhyme or reason, but that isn't important.

What's important is that he get free.

What's important is that he reaches the man whose fragmenting thoughts found him, even locked here.

_Enjolras!_

He screams the name, fighting for all he's worth against the fire, ignoring the memories that try to distract him. He can't afford distraction, not now.

At first he doesn't think the man is going to respond to him. At first he thinks maybe he's too late, that the cold has gotten too far, that they've lost too much of _themselves_, and he struggles harder, snarling, angry.

There's something wrong about this. There's something _wrong_ about him being bound, about the fire tying him here in the darkness, about the way he feels, and he will not let something wrong have victory over him.

He will not let Enjolras suffer any more than the man already has.

_Enjolras!_

This time the man hears him, and Eric claws his way out of the fire that's holding him and into the body that the shadow's feeding on.

Enjolras fades back, barely a whisper in the cacophony that fills Eric's head, but Eric can spare only a thought to try to reassure the man.

He can barely _form_ a thought, coherency lost as he stares up into confused red eyes. Agony spreads from his chest and neck through his whole body, and there is something _in_ his chest, something that shouldn't be there.

Free.

He needs to be free.

All men need to be free.

Safe.

Defended.

Fed.

Healthy.

Educated.

But first, free.

It is a thought that resonates with the deafening susurrus in his head, bringing peace and clarity, a united front, and for one glorious moment Eric can draw a full breath.

Forming a fist with a hand that he can barely feel, Eric strikes at the shadow with all that he has, and wakes to water running down his shivering, aching body.

XXX

"Enjolras!"

Eric's body tenses against Grant's, his head half-rising, and hope flickers stupidly in Grant's heart.

"_Enjolras!_"

The second cry is almost as loud as Eric's scream of agony, a defeaning, determined bellow, and Eric draws a deep breath, different from the panting, shallow gasps that had come before. His entire body tenses, and before Grant can do anything more Eric lurches out of his arms, and Eric's right fist drives forward into the wall of the shower as his blue eyes finally open.

"Eric?" Grant's hands hover over Eric's body, afraid to touch him, afraid to hurt him, afraid that this isn't real. Eric kneels, his right hand still against the shower wall, his left balancing himself against the ground.

Blood trickles slowly from his nose, but no more appears on his chest, no more appears on his neck, the hideous, terrible bruising has finally stopped spreading, and his blue eyes are _open_.

"Eric?" Grant's hand touches Eric's right shoulder, the one farthest away from the bruise. "Eric, it's me. It's all right."

"Grant?" Eric turns to him, the motion jerky, uncoordinated. "Grantaire?"

"Yeah." Grant smiles, no longer knowing if it's tears or water or both on his face. "Yeah, it's u—"

A string of words that Grant can't translate—that _Grantaire_ can't translate—slides from Eric's mouth, and he starts listing hard to the left.

Grant catches him before he can fall entirely, noticing with relief that Eric's skin is far cooler than it has been. "Easy there. We've got you."

Grant allows Grantaire to slide forward a moment later, repeating the entreaty in French.

Eric nods, almost limp in his arms, though his blue eyes stay open, staring vacantly ahead. "Others. _Amis._ Independents. Others…"

"They're all right." He hopes it's true. Jona hasn't called back to tell him anyone else is hurt. If it's a lie, though, it's a lie Eric needs right now. "They're fine, so you have to be fine, too, all right?"

"Combeferre…" Eric blinks, shivering harder, sliding fully into French. "Can I see Combeferre? I want…" He swallows, switching back into English. "Want to see them, Grant. Please. I want…"

Another string of words that he and Grantaire can't understand, and Grant finds himself shaking. "You can see them, Eric. Enjolras. They'll come see you. They're all right. Come on, stand with me, please—"

A pounding comes from their apartment door, managing to be heard even over the hiss of water, and Grant tightens his arms around Eric as Eric lurches to his feet, one arm attempting to shove Grant behind him as a feral growl rolls from his throat.

Eric almost collapses a moment later, but Grant catches him, dragging him out of the shower and turning it off.

He hollers out a response to the EMTs, trying to keep them from kicking down the door. He's fairly certain Eric wouldn't react well right now to anyone damaging their things.

He doesn't know what happened to Eric. He doesn't know how the shadow managed to hurt Eric so badly. He doesn't know what repercussions this is going to have for Eric, what the awful bruises on his body mean for his mind and soul.

Eric's alive, though.

Eric's alive, and right now that's enough hope to keep Grant moving.


	26. Part Twenty-Six: The Conflagration

**Author's Notes:** Thank you guys for all the kind comments again! You're amazing readers. Also many thanks to RobertaWhickham for keeping me from embarrassing myself with the few little bits of actual French I threw into this chapter (and go read Fraternite on zir account if you haven't, it's amazing). I would apologize for the end of this chapter, but hey, the plot's finally moving forward, right? Right. Oh, also also, for anyone interested, the Dreamwidth blogs for the boys have multiplied because my beta is awesome. They should all be findable from agentofagency or artistwithoutacause for anyone interested in playing with them.

_Part Twenty-Six: The Conflagration_

It doesn't take Con more than thirty seconds to locate Enjolras once he walks into the emergency room. Part of it's due to the fact that he's been to this hospital before, both for classes and on his own, learning as much as he can while helping out where allowed.

A larger part is the fact that there's only so many people who would be yelling in a hectic mixture of French and English, and he knows both raised voices very well.

The emergency room's busy, and Con uses that to his advantage, brushing past the nurses checking people in, trusting Finny to stay close to him or run interference where needed. All his attention is focused on finding Eric—finding Enjolras—it doesn't matter what name they use, there's barely any separation between him and Combeferre as they continue doggedly about their task.

The doctors have Eric in one of the triage areas. It's not a proper room, rather a small semi-private space created by hanging curtains on three sides, with a bed and monitors tucked up against the wall. It's a space where the hospital puts patients who aren't currently critical while waiting for rooms to be found or for the doctors to decide whether or not they're even going to admit the patient. The space is crowded, Grant standing beside the bed, his hand locked tight around Eric's, an intern and two orderlies standing at the foot of the bed.

Eric looks terrible.

Con's breath catches in his throat for a moment as he takes in the scene. Eric's pressed up against the head of the bed, in shorts that may have been a light blue at some point but are currently waterlogged and blood-drenched. His hair stands out from his head in damp disarray, looking more like a lion's mane than ever. His skin is pale, several shades paler than usual, his cheeks ghost-white, even his lips having barely a hint of color. Dark bruises so purple they're almost black cover half his chest and the majority of his left shoulder and neck. His eyes are dilated, just a faint sliver of blue showing around wide black pupils, and his movements are jerky, lacking his usual fluid grace. An IV line is connected to the crook of Eric's left arm, and a small piece of gauze is taped around the inside of his right arm, telling Con that someone, at least, has managed to touch Eric and try to help him.

"—need to let us help you, Eric." The intern's voice tries to be gentle, but there's too much fear and frustration in it for the gentleness to sound anything but feigned.

"Don't." Eric's voice is thick, as though he's struggling to get each syllable out, and he slides into French. "No sleep. Mustn't sleep." Back into English, no flicker in his expression, none of the tell-tales that Con's come to watch for to indicate that Eric's allowed Enjolras to slide forward, though Eric's hand tightens around Grant's. "Don't. Need him. Need awake."

A string of syllables follows, a string that Con can't decipher though the syllables sound vaguely familiar, and his blood runs cold as a soft sound of surprise slides from his mouth. He should know any language that Eric or Enjolras would speak.

Eric notices him, finally, turning to him with that same jerky, ungainly movement. At first a smile breaks across his face, open, ecstatic joy; then hesitancy follows it, and Eric huddles harder against the head of the bed. "Sorry, Con. Combeferre. _Désolé_. Sorry."

Con's breath hisses out in a snarl of rage.

Eric's afraid.

Enjolras' afraid of _him_, and that's something that should never happen.

The intern—one Con's seen before, a woman he should know the name of, but he can't think of it right now and her nametag has apparently disappeared—continues to watch Eric, expression set in perplexity and frustration. As the senior medical professional present the intern's supposed to be the one in charge here, but it's clear that she doesn't know how to respond to the situation.

After a second one of the orderlies touches Con's shoulder. He's a well-built man, several inches taller and many pounds heavier than Con, clearly here to try to help with a fractious patient. "You really shouldn't be here."

"I think, if you want to do this without upsetting your patient more, it would be best if I stayed." Con's voice draws the attention of the intern, and he meets the distressed young woman's eyes evenly. "What are you trying to do right now?"

For a moment he thinks the woman isn't going to answer him. There's no reason she should. He has no standing here, and someone older, one of the residents or one of the actual doctors, would probably simply insist that he leave.

He's a familiar face, though, someone who's been around the hospital, and Con can tell from the way the woman's face is twisted that she's both out of her depth and unsure what to do right now. Instead of throwing him out, something that would be very bad for all of them, she turns to him. "You speak the languages he's using?"

"Yes." It's not quite a lie. He speaks every language Eric and Enjolras should be fluent in. "I'm a friend of his, a very close friend."

"If you're his friend, then tell us what drugs he's on. Tell us _anything_ he's been up to that could explain what…" The woman blows out a quick breath, moving a strand of escaped hair away from her face. "Anything that could help us out."

"He's not on any drugs." Grant's jaw is clenched so tight it must be painful. "I've _told_ you, he was fine this evening, he's not on any drugs, he barely drinks, and _I didn't hurt him_, so stop trying to send me away."

Pain and fury are obvious in Grant's tone, on his face, and Con knows that this isn't the first time he's had to say any of this.

Con doesn't know if Eric actually hears the words, if he actually understands what's being said as his eyes flick frantically from one person to another, but he certainly responds to the tone. As soon as Grant's voice shifts from quietly controlled to anger, Eric's hand tightens around Grant's, and he leans forward, placing himself between Grant and the medical professionals. "Stay. _Stay._ Stay."

The word alternates between French and English, neither quite pronounced right, and Con can feel something twist in his gut.

He needs time with Eric and Enjolras. They need time to help him figure out whatever happened to him, help him get his equilibrium back, help him sort through whatever mess the shadow's managed to make of his head and soul.

But first, he has to make sure Eric isn't going to die on him.

"—anyone but family. It's nothing against you. If not for the language barrier, I'd have no legal right to allow _anybody_ other than family here." The woman sounds honestly regretful, her frustration giving way to a tired resignation. "We're just trying to find ways to help him, Grant."

"_Sedating_ him is not going to help him." Grant's eyes meet Con's, horror and fear painfully obvious. "It's not a good idea, right, Con?"

"I think…" Con forces himself to think, to be calm, though he'd much rather push everyone else aside and simply start treating Enjolras himself. Except he isn't a doctor, no matter what skills Combeferre has, and Eric's going to be much better off having the actual professionals taking care of his body. "Grant's right, and Eric wouldn't willingly take any drugs. He values his capacity for thought too much. If I were to hazard my untrained opinion, based only on the few symptoms I know, I would suggest looking more towards meningitis of one form or another."

"We're looking into several possibilities for his symptoms, including meningitis, IMHA, a dozen other things…" The intern looks between Grant and Con before shaking her head. "He's delirious. He's reacted badly to several attempts to treat him. I need to sedate him."

Grant shakes his head, obstinate, determined, and Eric bares his teeth in an expression that does nothing to help their case.

"Eric." Con waits for Eric to look at him, his stomach clenching again as Eric's body huddles down into an instinctive defensive position. "They're trying to help you. Do you understand that?"

For a moment he's afraid that Eric doesn't. For a moment he thinks that Eric's too far gone, too lost in whatever was done to him, to comprehend what's happening around him. Then Eric nods, that terrible, jerky, graceless movement that seems to be all he's capable of right now. "Doctors. Help." He tries to say a word, stumbling and tripping on the syllables until he finally manages to continue in French. "Trying to help. I know. I'm trying. But they tried to take Grantaire away. They're trying…" Eric's body shudders, his lips losing even the faint color that they had as he slides back into English. "No sedation. No sleeping. Please."

Con turns back to the intern. "What is it that you need from him?"

The woman hesitates, just for a few seconds, before the low moans of someone else in pain outside their unit drags her from her reverie. "I need him hooked up to the monitors. We're already got bloodwork—he seemed to like the EMTs better than he likes us."

"Yeah, well, the EMTs didn't keep trying to send me away." Grant glares daggers at the woman, though he thankfully shuts up when Con sends an exasperated look his way.

"These?" Con moves to the same side of Eric's bed as Grant, his shoes squeaking slightly on water-slicked tile, and he notices for the first time that Grant's just as damp as Eric is. Time enough to ask about that later, though, and he lifts the ECG leads out of their basket.

"And the pulse ox." The woman frowns at him, moving slowly to stand on the other side of the bed.

Eric shifts, turning his back fully to Con and Grant as he watches the woman warily.

"Eric." Con hesitates, then reaches out very slowly to set his hand on Eric's uninjured shoulder. He slips into French, giving them a bit more privacy. "They need to attach these to you, Enjolras. You need to be still and trust them. Once you're hooked up I think we'll have some time alone to talk. All right?"

After a few seconds Eric's head inclines in the barest nod, and Con holds out the leads to the woman.

The woman does her work quickly and well, hooking Eric up to the ECG as well as a pulse oximeter and checking the settings on the IV drip within ninety seconds. Eric holds perfectly still for all of her ministrations, only the occasional shiver giving away his status as conscious and aware.

"There." The intern sighs as she steps away, studying the monitors for a moment before shaking her head. She addresses Con rather than Eric or Grant when she speaks. "One of the residents or doctors will be by as soon as the bloodwork comes down. He seems stable enough, but if you or he have any problems just holler. I'm going to say that you're allowed to stay here for purposes of translating until such time as his next of kin can be contacted. All right?"

"Thank you. It's appreciated." Con smiles at the woman.

She merely shakes her head. "Don't thank me. Just keep him from doing anything stupid, and don't do anything that's going to get me in trouble. If you could get him out of his wet clothes and into a hospital gown without causing World War Three, that would also be appreciated. Now, as I'm sure you've noticed there are about a hundred other patients that I need to go see, so if there's nothing else you need…"

Con shakes his head.

Grant stays very quiet, for once, and Con's exceedingly grateful for that.

As soon as the medical personnel are gone Eric relaxes, his body slumping back against Grant's.

Con reaches out to lay a hand gently on Eric's shoulder. "Eric? Enjolras?"

"Con-ferre." Eric lifts the hand that's still tangled with Grant's toward Con, turns his head to frown at his fingers, and then lifts his too-wide eyes to look at Con. A thin trickle of blood—too pale, the consistency far too much like water, Eric's definitely lost a lot of blood somewhere—slides from his right nostril. "You're here. You're not angry?"

"I'm here." Con's fingers tighten around Eric's shoulder. "And there is no reason I would be angry with you right now. Tell me what I can do to help you."

"Others? _Amis_?" Enjolras draws a deep breath, his head rolling limply on his neck until it lies against Con's arm.

"They're fine. They're all awake, and they're going to gather here." Some of them are probably already at the hospital, and he should probably find them. Later, though, once he's certain Eric's going to be all right.

"I…" Eric's eyes close and then are forced open again, seemingly by sheer force of will. His skin feels warm against Con's arm—too warm, just slightly, and Con's fingers itch to have Eric's medical chart in hand. When Eric continues speaking, it's in French again. "This is real, right, Combeferre? This is true?"

"This is real. This is true." He repeats the words in French, not knowing which language is registering better for Eric right now. "What's happening to you, Eric? Enjolras?"

"It's loud. _Too many memories._" Eric rubs the blood from his face with his free hand, not seeming to notice that he's switching between French and English haphazardly. "It's hard to think. Better now. _Better with us._ Grant and Combeferre. _Want to see the other Amis._ Say my name again, Con-ferre. _Our names_. Please."

"Eric. Enjolras. We'll say it as often as you want us to, as often as you need us to." Con's grip on Eric's shoulder couldn't be tighter. "You're going to be just fine, Eric. This is real, and no one's angry, and the memories will quiet down just like before."

"Yes. I'll be fine. _We'll be fine._" Eric's voice is a soft whisper. "_Others_?"

"I can send Grant to find them, if you want." It's selfish of him, perhaps, but he doesn't want to leave Eric's side, he's the one with a modicum of understanding of medicine, and he's the one who has some relationship with the hospital staff.

"Safe?" Eric's head rises and he turns to face them, his movement still _wrong_, fundamentally off. "_Is it safe?_ Don't die for us. _Die for the cause, not for us_. Don't—"

"Enjolras." Combeferre's hand presses against Enjolras' pale, too-warm cheek. "There's no danger here, not in the real world. Remember what time we're in. Remember what world we're in. He can find the others, and there's no danger for anyone."

"No danger." Eric nods, slowly. "_No danger._ All right."

Grant doesn't move, his hand still twined with Eric's.

"Grant." Con raises his eyes to meet Grant's. "You heard what he wants."

"I don't want to leave him." The words are a soft, sulky whisper. "What if they don't let us come back? What if—"

"Stay." Eric straightens again, his body starting to tremble slightly. "_Don't separate._ Stay together. _Sta_—"

"It's fine, Eric." Con strokes damp strands of hair away from Eric's face. "He won't leave, then. He'll just call them and figure out how to give them directions here."

Grant pulls his hand away from Eric's slowly, reluctantly, but at least he seems to know better than to argue at this point. Eric watches him with eyes that aren't quite focused, shifting his hand to grasp Con's firmly. Con offers him a smile. "What else can we do for you, Eric?"

Whatever answer Eric's going to give is lost as the curtain at the end of the bed is flung aside and one of the male emergency room doctors charges in, a nurse trailing behind with a bag of blood.

Eric straightens, wariness and uncertainty filling his expression again.

"You need to leave." The doctor's words are clipped as he slides a short stack of papers into Eric's chart, his eyes fixed on the monitors as the nurse places the bag of blood on the IV drip. "The two of you shouldn't be here. And you need to get into dry clothing, young man, before you catch whatever your roommate has. We're going to be admitting him to the hospital as soon as we have a room available, so there's no need for you to stay."

"_Translator._" Enjolras' face is twisted in concentration, and he continues in French, each word carefully formed, though occasionally his accent slips into something almost English. "_I need him as a translator._"

"No." The doctor smiles at Eric, his gray hair standing on end, and continues in French. "I know you feel terrible right now. You're running a low-grade fever, and you've managed to lose an awful lot of blood. We're going to get you feeling better, though. In order to do that, I need you to rest, which means your friends need to leave."

"No." Eric's voice is determined, certain, but Con can feel Eric's hand shaking in his. "They stay."

"We stay." Con smiles at Eric before turning back to the doctor. There's no possible way they're going to separate him from Eric, not when he clearly needs him, but getting hospital security involved won't help anyone. A bit of deference could sometimes go a long way, though. "Please, sir, we're not going to be any trouble. I can monitor his vitals for you. I can—"

"No, Conlan. The best thing you can do for him is leave." The doctor picks up the chart and makes a few quick notes.

"If they leave…" Eric's breath catches in his throat, and he struggles with the next word but eventually manages to continue, still in English. "I leave."

"You're not checking yourself out against medical advice. You're obviously having mental difficulties at the moment, so I can prevent it." The doctor sets the chart down again. "And if you cause too much trouble, we'll do what's needed to protect ourselves and you, including sedating you."

"Visitor list." Choking again on the words, a thin stream of blood once more running down his face, Eric rattles off a string of words in what sounds like broken Korean. After a few seconds he raises his hand to his face and continues in English again, though French slides in as well. "I get to make a visitor list. _I can do that._ _Eight names._ No, nine. Let me—"

"There aren't visiting hours at four in the morning." The doctor watches Eric, an odd, wary expression on his face. "Conlan, I know you've worked at the hospital. People speak highly of you. Do you swear that there's no possible way your friend's been taking any drugs and that he hasn't had any serious injuries lately?"

"Yes."

The doctor nods, slowly. "Then I'd advise that everyone who's had close contact with him in the last few days get themselves checked out by their primary care physician, because I'm worried about some new kind of disease. Another reason you shouldn't be here."

"If he has something contagious, we've already got it." And they do, but it's not something he can explain to these people. If he starts ranting about shadow-demons that hunt souls in the dead of night, no one's going to believe him. He'll be separated from Eric for certain.

Whatever the doctor's intending to say is cut off by an intercom page warning of incoming burn victims and requesting all available personnel to be prepared to receive them.

"Damn." The doctor curses quietly, his brows drawing together sharply. "Stay. Go. It's no matter to me until your friend's parents get here, I suppose. But tell anyone if you start feeling poorly, all right?"

Con barely has time to nod before the doctor disappears again.

"Others." Eric's shaking again, watching the blood slowly slide down the IV line and into his arm. "_Amis._"

"Coming." Grant strokes Eric's hair back with infinite tenderness, his expression somehow both incredibly sad and loving. "Just a few more seconds, Eric."

Eric settles down to wait, and Con decides it's all right to take a few seconds to read Eric's medical file.

XXX

Courfeyrac bursts into the room in a blaze of light, and Cori wraps his arms around Enjolras, chattering rapidly in something that's probably English.

Enjolras doesn't speak English, but he knows the language anyway, if he tries. Eric doesn't bother to pay attention to the words, though, because the words aren't important. What's important is the way that Courfeyrac looks at him, the way Cori's hands cup his face before smoothing his hair out, the teasing, worried lilt in Courfeyrac's words.

Courfeyrac is alive.

Cori isn't angry or disappointed in him.

Another little piece of the world slots into place, wipes away the sense of things being _wrong_, and the mad cacophony in his head fades back a bit.

Feuilly comes next, and an apology is tumbling from Enjolras' lips before Eric can stop it, a mixture of French and English that attempts to stop the other words from escaping, the words from the ones still not quite awake, and he needs to stop hearing them. He needs to make them quiet again, make them calm, turn away from the images that come from them, even if they're infinitely preferable to the _wrong wrong wrong_ that's been branded into his memory, Finny's hand on a dagger in his flesh, and—

"Eric. Enjolras." Combeferre's face swims into view, and Eric blinks until the world is slightly clearer again, until he can feel Finny's hand on his shoulder, see Finny's lips pulled back in an expression of mixed fury and sorrow.

Feuilly pushes Con gently away, his hands resting on both of Enjolras' shoulders. "I would not hurt you for anything you said, Enjolras. I would not hurt you for _anything_. Do you understand, Eric?"

He does.

It's right, so right, so much better than the burning agony and the _wrong_ that it brought to him, imprinted on him, and Eric smiles as Enjolras nods and the storm falls even quieter in his head.

The rest of the Amis appear, talking too rapidly, too fast, a mixture of languages and a barrage of touches that go far quicker than his reeling thoughts can manage to follow, but it doesn't matter.

He can make out Joly's laughter, knows that's Jona's voice talking quietly with Combeferre about something medical.

He knows that is Lyle, making some dry comment about Enjolras managing to look good even half-dressed and drained of most of his blood, and he smiles at Lesgles even as he shakes his head.

He knows that's Jean, bloody scratches on his face, and for a moment Eric can feel the world snap into sharp focus again.

"It hurt you." Eric reaches over to trace the scratches, and Enjolras continues the thought. "It attacked you, too."

"I'm fine, Enjolras." That's Jehan's smile, his fingers clasping theirs tightly. "I'm fine, and you will be as well."

He doesn't know when Jean becomes Bahorel, time slipping and skipping in the nonsensical snippets of memory and fragments of language that fill his head. It doesn't matter. He knows the feel of Bahorel's fingers, lifting his chin up, running a hand feather-gentle over his bruises, saying that the shadow needs to be slowly drawn and quartered for what it's done.

Simply seeing them, hearing them, it's enough to give him what he needs, to help him re-establish his identity, to narrow down the voices in his head to just him and Enjolras.

It's wonderful.

After all that's come before, it's absolutely wonderful.

It also means he's able to not panic when a nurse finally comes to move him to a private room, keeping the Amis—the Independents, it doesn't matter what name he uses for them—from following.

He has no doubt they'll make their way to his side shortly, and if they don't he should be well enough to walk away from the hospital on his own in a few hours.

The fact that they're able to—that they'll _want to_—come to his side is really the only thing that matters, and he's once again quite certain of that.

XXX

"He's looking better." Cori sets a cup of coffee down in front of Con before sprawling in the seat next to him at the cafeteria table. "Talking better, too. By the end there he wasn't flipping languages every few seconds, or speaking in Klingon every once in a while."

"Not Klingon. Spanish. Korean. Chinese. Russian. Arabic. Something from Africa, I think, but I'm less versed in those phonetics." Con blows on his coffee, trying not to frown too strongly. The shifts are going to change shortly, and visiting hours start in only a few minutes. He'll be able to find his way back to Enjolras' side.

"What did you think of his chart?" Cori leans forward in his seat, a cup of coffee in his own hands. He looks good, somehow—really good, better than he has any right to look given that they all got woken up ridiculously early to deal with this.

"I don't know." Taking a sip of his coffee, Con rubs at the back of his neck, trying to ease the tension there. "He had a temp of 103.2 when the EMTs picked him up—"

"It was higher than that." Grant hunches down at the other end of the table, his hands locked around a third cup of coffee that Cori had slid down to him. "A lot higher. I took it at over 106, and that was before the seizure and the shower and everything else."

"It's been dropping steadily, though, and it was normal when we left him." Another burning swallow of coffee helps Con keep his voice steady. "He's also got a hematocrit of eleven. Given how in shape he is, I'd say the shadow made off with about two thirds to three quarters of his blood."

"It was trying to kill him." Barry's voice comes from behind him, a low rumble, and Con turns to study the man.

Jean tilts his head to the side, chewing at his lip for a moment before nodding. "It sounds like it to me. Nothing like this has ever happened to any of the rest of you?"

"No." Jona shakes his head, reaching out to touch Lyle with one hand and Maria with the other. "Maria… well, I suppose you should tell what happened."

Maria shrugs, looking down at her hand. At her bandaged hand, and Con studies the scratches on her temple, the gouges down Jean's right cheek more closely. When she speaks, Maria's voice is calm and determined. "I finally saw the shadow. I almost, almost remember being Musichetta. What I do remember… the shadow told me to try to wake Eric. It said that we would all know despair when we saw that even the strongest light could be extinguished by the dark."

"Well, it failed." Con's hand tightens around the coffee cup, and he barely manages to restrain himself from crushing the flimsy paper. Scalding himself won't help anyone, just like getting himself arrested or thrown out trying to stay by Eric once he didn't desperately need them anymore wouldn't have helped anyone. "He's not dead."

"But is he broken?" Grant's voice is a bitter, soft whisper, his eyes fixed on the dark coffee swirling in his cup. "He's… he's such a mess, Con. He keeps _apologizing_. He keeps _thanking us_ for things that he shouldn't, for just _being_ there. We're celebrating because he can string words together in the right fucking language so that we can understand him without needing a translator in our heads! He's—"

"That's enough, Grant." Lyle's hand falls on Grant's shoulder, his voice low and gruff. "It's Eric. It's Enjolras. He's going to be fine. He managed to go from single words to complete sentences in two hours. Give him a day and I'm sure he'll be looking even better."

Con hopes so. He really hopes so.

_He'll be fine._ Combeferre's certainty is a fierce, powerful thing. _Enjolras won't let anything break him. He won't._

_Eric wouldn't, either._ Con remembers the way that Eric flinched back from him, and the coffee in his mug trembles in time to his hand until he sets down the drink. _But being scarred, being changed by something, it's not a choice._

_He will recover. _Combeferre's tone brooks no argument. _He may be changed, but he will recover. We'll be there to make sure of it, if this damn beaurocracy your world has created around the ill and injured ever lets us._

"It was good to hear him talking in complete sentences." Cori grins, and if it seems a little more forced than usual it's still a wonderful thing to see. "And he was looking a lot healthier at the end, had a bit more color in his face, looked like he had more blood in his veins."

"That's because he _does_ have more blood in his veins. He has two pints more blood in his veins than he did before, and yet his temperature's come down two degrees from when he was admitted." Con looks to Jona. "It should have gone up, right? During the transfusion, his temperature should have gone up."

"It should have. Normally it does, from what I've seen and read." Jona shrugs. "I think we should just celebrate him being awake and his temperature being back down to normal."

"We need to figure out how it did this." Con forces his jaw to relax, trying to ease the start of a headache by pressing on his temples. "Because however it trapped him in the nightmare, whatever it did to him… we need to keep it from happening again, to him or to one of us."

"We noticed that, Con." Barry manages to sound both amused and exasperated.

Finny paces back and forth beside the table. "You really couldn't wake him up, Grant?"

Cori winces, his head rising and his mouth opening though no sound emerges. Jona and Lyle both reach out a hand to Grant, touching his shoulders, offering comfort.

Grant still slouches down in his seat, his posture completely dejected. "I tried. I did everything I could think of. Maybe there's something I missed. Maybe I should've done something different. I—"

"I'm sure you did everything you could to wake him. I doubt any of us could have done anything different." The words are hard for Con to say. Tired as he is, scared as he is, it would be easy to lash out at Grant, to question what he did, to insist that he must have done something wrong and that's why Eric was injured. That wouldn't be fair, though. It won't help Eric. Hurting Grant will only make things worse.

Grant raises his eyes, slowly, to meet Con's.

Barry breaks in before he can say anything, a low string of curses, and the whole group turns to him in confusion.

Barry simply points at the TV screen currently playing the early morning news. "Look."

Con turns to the TV, and feels the world grind to a halt.

A fire rages through downtown, consuming the political sector, turning night into day. A helicopter camera pans over the area, showing practically an entire block aflame, and then the scene shifts back to the image that had undoubtedly caught Barry's eye in the first place.

On the side of City Hall, burning so hot the letters shine blue-white even amidst the smoke and the other flames, words gleam in a familiar hand.

_Vive la République!_

_Vive la Révolution!_

"Oh." Cori sits up slowly. "Well. This isn't good."

"Cori." Con stares at the screen even after the image is gone, replaced by a female reporter. "That may be the biggest understatement you've ever made."


	27. Part Twenty-Seven: Respite

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay. A combination of happy real life things (my birthday, a few friends' birthdays, and I'll be posting two one-shots written for the occasions shortly) and not-so-happy real life things got in the way. Hope the chapter's enjoyable, and thanks to everyone for being so patient! My beta and I love you all.

_Part Twenty-Seven: Respite_

James stares up at the words still visible on the side of the building.

The fire's out. All the fires are out, the buildings cordoned off, and half the police force in the city is currently working on this case in one way or another.

How did someone manage this?

The letters that form the foreign words are each a foot tall, the handwriting clear and easy to read. The center of each stroke is charred black, burned several inches into the building, but the edges of the letters are less deeply burned, a reddish-black paste. Someone would have had to use a ladder, at least, and to risk breaking their neck in order to make the broad strokes.

Someone, or someones.

Who would want to do this, though? Who would do so much destruction in order to send such a vague message?

(_He will make the world burn…_)

James turns away from the wall, fighting a sudden sense of nausea and unease. He has his own pet theory about who could have done this, of course. He'll need some kind of proof before he can do much more than watch them, though. With something this big, something this ambitious, they'll have surely made a mistake. They'll have surely left some trace behind, and all he needs is a small lead to follow.

He finds the woman that he's looking for inside the building, carefully sifting through the ash on the ground, scooping some into a small bag. On the charred wall before her are words, and James comes closer, frowning at them.

They're in French, not a language he knows, but it doesn't matter. The concepts are close enough to their English and Spanish equivalents for him to understand.

"Liberty, equality, fraternity." Allie stands with a sigh, brushing at her knees. "What kind of bastard does something like _this_ and leaves a message like _that_?"

"Delusional people." People who thought what they were doing was right when it clearly wasn't. People who would be willing to kill, to torture others to achieve their goals, and he knows that the blond and his group of malcontents are behind this.

This message is charred, too, but everything in the remnants of City Hall is charred, as are most of the buildings surrounding it. The fire burned hot and spread fast. This message isn't as badly charred as the ones outside, though, and there's again that odd red color to the words, though this one is more pronounced at the center of the letters than at the outside. James lifts a hand to touch the letters, then pauses and turns to Allie. "May I?"

Allie shakes her head. "No. Not yet. This is one of the better-preserved ones, and I'd like to keep it that way in case we need additional samples."

Pulling his hand back to his side with reluctance, James nods. "Any idea what they used?"

"An accelerant." Allie shrugs, bending down to collect her samples. "Mixed in with the pigment they used for the words, it seems. The fire spread from the places the words are written. The real kicker's what I think they used for the pigment, though."

James frowns. "What?"

Pointing to where she had been kneeling, Allie smiles grimly. "Take a look there and tell me what you think it is."

Bending down, James follows her finger and studies the floor beneath the writing. It only takes a moment for him to notice where Allie's disturbed the settled ash, and he studies a spatter of dark red dots. Some have bubbled from the heat; others haven't, and the color on those is very, very familiar. Standing, he fixes the woman with a stare and raises both eyebrows. "What do you think it is?"

"You know what I think it is." Allie shrugs once more. "We'll know as soon as the lab gets a chance to analyze it, but I'm pretty sure your delusional person used blood as the base pigment and mixed it with his accelerant."

"I hope you're right." James finds himself smiling. "Because that's going to make it significantly easier to catch him."

XXX

"That's Enjolras' handwriting." Con's face is very still, his voice almost devoid of emotion as he and Cori huddle over Cori's phone, studying pictures from the fire.

Grant should probably stand up, move to their side of the table, see if he can add any input to the discussion. He's aware of that, vaguely, but all he can seem to manage to do is sit here and stare across at them.

"Or Eric's." Cori's voice is soft, far too quiet for him. "And I hadn't thought before about how similar they write, thanks for that, Con. All right. So. E's handwriting is in flaming foot-tall letters in the middle of burning downtown."

"We shouldn't talk about this here." Barry's voice is low and gruff as he paces on one side of the table, Finny pacing on the other. "People might overhear."

"There's no way they can connect us to that." Grant raises his eyes to meet Barry's, not liking the note of pleading in his own voice, unable to make it go away. "Even if it is his handwriting—and it shouldn't be, it _can't_ be—he was with me and then he was here all night. There's no way they can tie us to… to _anything_."

"I don't know." Barry shrugs, stopping in his pacing to clap Grant on the shoulder. "But I'd prefer we not give anyone ideas, anyway. We'll talk about this where we're safe, at one of our houses."

"Does that mean we should wait to tell Eric?" Maria asks the question quietly, her head leaning against Lyle's arm. "I mean, not just until he's really coherent but until he's home?"

Lyle looks at Con. "_Should_ we tell Eric? We can't change it, and it's going to be… distressing."

"We tell him." There's no hesitancy in Con's response. "As soon as he's thinking clearly, we tell him, because if this is what we think it is that thing's going to try to use it against us in some way. Knowledge is power, and we all need to be as prepared as possible."

"And if he can't handle it?" The words are out before Grant can stop them, and he finds that he doesn't even want to. They all saw what he saw. "People _died_ in the fires. You said it's his handwriting. What else of the fire is his? Did it somehow use him to—"

"We tell him or _it_ tells him, Grant." Finny stops pacing for a few seconds, expression drawn as though he's bitten into something bitter. "You can't protect people from terrible things, just prepare them."

"I won't tell him until I think he's ready, like I said, but I'll make sure to tell him. Just like I'm sure Cori will catch Mark, Erin and Gary up on what happened here." Con waits for Cori to nod before continuing. "We've done what we can here, I think. Eric's stable. He doesn't need all of us here, and we should probably try to get some rest while it's still light. It doesn't seem to like attacking us during the day as much."

Jona laughs, the sound hollow, devoid of amusement. "After this, I'm almost tempted to say let's try stimulants and see if we can avoid sleeping."

"That would be the shortest-lasting, worst solution we could try." Con smiles. "And I know you're aware of that."

"Yeah." Letting out his breath in a slow sigh, Jona rests his head against Maria's shoulder. "We'd get steadily less and less coherent, less capable of thought, more emotional, more volatile, and eventually, if we don't sleep, go completely insane. It's not a good idea. It's just…"

Lyle's hand finds Jona's, squeezes tight, and Grant doesn't need Jona to finish the thought to know what he was going to say.

If it did this to Eric, if it can trap them in the dreams, they're dead.

"It cheated. Remember that." Cori's voice is firm, his eyes hard with an unaccustomed anger. "Remember how different this is from everything that's gone before. I don't think it can do this all the time. I think it would have, if it could. What it's going to do is try to use this to undermine our faith, in him, in each other, in ourselves, and we can't let that happen. We stick together. One or two of us stays here with Eric, so we can get someone in to see him and help him. My vote for that's Con, if he's up for it. The rest of us get a few hours sleep, and then we gather and check the news when there'll actually be more information available and plan what our next move is. Sound good?"

"I'd be more comfortable staying here than leaving, yes." Con's hands are locked tight around his coffee again, and Grant can see the liquid shaking gently in the cup. "Visiting hours should be starting soon, and…"

Con trails off, his eyes moving past Grant to the door to the cafeteria.

Turning in his seat, Grant watches as a woman in her late forties or early fifties scans the cafeteria, singles out the Independents, and heads straight for them. She's beautiful, shining blond hair just a shade lighter than Eric's, piercing blue eyes that look very similar to his, dressed elegantly but simply, and Grant has no doubt who she is.

He also doesn't know how to react to her, what to say, and for once his tongue seems to decide that this is a reason to say nothing.

The rest of the Independents seem to have reached the same conclusion, and silence holds the group as the woman pauses at the edge of the table. Her eyes scan the group once, twice, and then end on Con. "Conlan?"

"Yes." Con inclines his head slightly, his expression still frozen, unreadable, and Grant realizes exactly what this moment means.

This woman is Eric's blood family. She could keep them away from Eric, if she wishes, and there would be nothing Grant could do about it.

"You can call me Maggie. I'm sure you've guessed, but I'm Eric's mother. He's been asking for you. For several of you." Her eyes scan the group again, ending on Cori. "Cori, correct?"

Cori grins, rising and extending a hand to shake Maggie's. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am."

"The same. I wish it had been under better circumstances." Maggie's calm cracks, just for a moment, as her hand is enveloped in Cori's. Weariness shows in the lines around her eyes, and her lip trembles a bit. "But I am glad to make your acquaintance. Eric speaks highly of all of you, when I actually manage to claim a bit of his time. Forgive me if I guess your names wrong. Barry? Lyle? Jona? Maria? Finny? Grant?"

Barry nods; Lyle grins; Jona gives a small wave; Maria murmurs an assent; Finny quietly says "yes, ma'am"; and Grant decides to simply nod, because if he opens his mouth he might beg her to take him to Eric's side, and that wouldn't be good.

_If he needs us, we'll find a way to get to him._ Utter determination and certainty flows from Grantaire. _We will not let anything hurt him._

Again. It hangs there between them, painful, obvious, because _he_ was screaming in their arms last night and there was nothing they could do to help him, and the certainty evaporates.

Maggie studies Jean, expression puzzled. "I don't believe I've heard of you."

Smiling, Jean shrugs. "I'm new to the group."

Maggie's eyes linger on the scratches down Jean's cheek, then dart to the scratches on Maria's face and the bandage around her hand. She doesn't say anything about their injuries, though. "Like I said, Eric's been asking for you all, and…" She pauses, takes a few deep breaths, and when she continues speaking her voice is soft and far less authoritative than it had been. "He wants me to leave, and he wants you to go to him. I'm inclined to give him what he wants, if you'll answer a few questions for me. Do you know what happened to him?"

Silence is the only answer they can give her.

Maggie's lips press tightly together, the blood pushed from them. "Because the doctors don't understand what's happened. They're telling me he's not in any danger now, they don't think, but they also can't explain _what happened to my boy_. How did he get bruises like that? Why is he missing so much blood? Please. If you know what happened to him, I don't care if it was something illegal, tell me. I'll do whatever I can to protect you."

Barry raises an eyebrow. "Hard to say when you don't know what you might be protecting us from."

"I know Eric." Maggie smiles, and it might just be the saddest expression Grant's ever seen. "I helped raise him. I know he'll always do what he thinks he needs to in order to help people—to help make the world a better place. It's created… stress for the family, because his father and I don't want him burning bridges he might need in the future or creating too much of a name for himself as a troublemaker when he's still so young. But I also won't try to tether him down. He's… ah, but I'm sure you all know him better than I do, at this point. So please. If you can help me… if you can help him…"

Cori reaches out and takes her hand again, gently. "We can't give you any answers. But we can promise that we're doing everything in our power to help him, and that he has done nothing that could bring shame to anyone."

Letting out her breath in a slow sigh, Maggie nods. "All right. If that's all you can tell me, all right. The doctors want him to sleep. He says he won't, and he keeps asking for you. Would one or two of you…"

"I'll come." Con stands.

"Me, too." Grant scrambles to his feet, feeling like his heart has suddenly started beating again at the prospect of seeing Eric.

"Everyone else should go sleep. In shifts, perhaps." Con catches Cori's eye.

Cori gives him a hug and then a shove toward Maggie. "We'll take care of each other. You take care of him, though you call us if you need someone to spell you for a little bit."

Con inclines his head and follows Maggie.

Grant follows Con, somehow still expecting an objection, but no one stops him or even questions his presence.

Eric's sitting up in bed when they walk into the room. He's in a hospital gown, thanks mainly to Con's patience and persistence in explaining that Eric would be less cold if he took off his wet pants and put on the gown, so only the bruise on his neck is visible. There's a bit of color in his lips, in his cheeks, far more than there had been when they arrived at the hospital. His hair still hangs loose around his head, but it's no longer a tangled mess, Cori having brushed it out as best he could using the hospital-provided equipment. His eyes are actually blue, more than just a sliver of color around a pitch-black pit of insanity, and he raises them to watch as the trio enters his room. His right hand is fiddling with the tape holding the IV in his left arm, now just a stream of clear fluid rather than a ruby river of borrowed blood, and his fingers continue to move over the tubing as he smiles hesitantly at them, his eyes mainly staying on Con. "You came."

Con doesn't hesitate before walking up to the bed, taking Eric's right hand in his, pulling it away from the IV. "As soon as we could, just like we said we would."

Grant watches the way Eric relaxes, his fingers tight around Con's, and realizes that he shouldn't be here.

He shouldn't ever have tried to be at Eric's side. It was a beautiful dream, but the second he tried to make it become more than a dream Eric almost died. Con and Cori, any of the others, they're the ones that Eric needs beside him, that Eric should have trusted to guard him from the monster in the dark, and he turns to leave before anyone else realizes that they should tell him to go.

"Grant?" Eric's voice is strained, almost panicked.

Turning back to Eric, Grant takes in the worried furrow between Eric's eyes, the uncertainty in his gaze, and knows that he has to do everything in his power to make it disappear. Eric shouldn't be worried. Eric shouldn't be uncertain.

Eric shouldn't be like Grant.

Moving to the opposite side of Eric's bed, across from Con, Grant tries to find a smile for the blond, though he keeps his hands at his sides. "I'm here."

Eric's left hand rises, touches tentatively at Grant's arm. "You want to leave?"

Never. He never wants to separated from Eric. "No. I just… thought maybe I should."

Frowning in puzzlement, Eric shakes his head. "Stay. Please."

Grant shifts his hand so that he's holding Eric's fingers in a firm grip. "Whatever you want."

The frown doesn't disappear from Eric's face, but it does fade, and he turns from them to where Maggie stands in the doorway.

Eric gestures toward them with his chin. "This is Conlan, one of my closest friends, and Grant, my boyfriend."

Grant tries not to let his surprise at the introduction show. He also tries hard not to notice the shock on Con's face.

"I know who they are. I just went and found them for you." Maggie looks small, though she's easily as tall as her son. She looks lost, her arms hugging herself, her purse clenched tight to her body, her eyes fixed on Eric. "Your other friends are downstairs as well, Eric. I'll make sure they're all added to the guest list."

"Thank you." Eric's voice is also quiet. "I'm going to be just fine. So it's all right if you leave now."

Maggie's face turns aside as though Eric had slapped her, her lips pressed tight together again.

Eric hesitates, his gaze turning to Con as he lapses into French. "It might not be safe. I don't wish anyone not already affected to be close to me."

"Ah." Understanding dawns on Con's face.

"What's he saying?" Maggie takes a step closer to the bed, frowning. "What language is that?"

"It's French. It's what we tend to speak as a group." Con turns so that he's facing Maggie, his hand staying locked with Eric's. "He was just reassuring me that he's fine, that you don't need to worry."

"I'm fine." Eric speaks in English again, no accent to the words, though he still speaks more slowly than usual, as though thinking about each word. "I have people here to take care of me. I'm sure I'll be out of the hospital in a few hours, at which point I'll need to make up for lost time in our work. So there's really no need for you to stay."

"You could have died, Eric." Tears flood Maggie's eyes, though she blinks them away before they can fall. "What the doctors told me… you had a fever so high it can cause permanent brain damage. You lost so much blood it's a miracle you were still conscious. It looks like someone _beat you_ with a _tire iron_. You won't tell me _why_ any of this has happened, though I suspect you know from the way you're acting. And now you want me to leave."

"I'm telling you that I'll be fine." Eric sits up a bit straighter. "I feel better. There's nothing wrong with me now—nothing that a few weeks and not losing any more blood won't fix, at least. I have people here who will help me. So yes, I want you to go home."

"And if I refuse? If I say that these boys can't be near you, and that I'm not leaving until you give me an explanation I can be satisfied with?" There are tears in her eyes again as she delivers the ultimatum.

Eric stops moving, stops breathing, his blue eyes unfocused for far too long, and Grant finds himself reaching for Eric's shoulder.

Then Eric turns his head away from his mother, his voice a husky whisper, his hand clenched so hard around Con's that Con's fingers are turning white. "Don't. Please. I'm trying to protect you, mama. There's nothing you can do to help me, and I won't see you hurt. So please. Go home."

"Mama." Maggie swallows, wiping at her cheeks as some of the tears escape. "Eric, you haven't called me that in ten years. You haven't even called me mom in three."

Silence descends on the room, a silence during which Grant finds himself afraid to even breathe.

"All right." Maggie lowers her head, the tears falling faster. "You don't need to fight me as well as whatever else you're fighting. Have your friends. Have your boyfriend. And I'll go, if it will help you. Just… tell me if there's anything I can do."

"I will. I promise." Eric turns back to his mother. "And I'm sorry, mom. I don't want to worry you. I appreciate your coming here. I… didn't expect it. I just… I want you safe. I love you. All right?"

"No. There is absolutely nothing all right with this situation, but just like you won't hurt me I won't hurt you. So… I'll leave it be." Maggie straightens, the tears drying on her cheeks. "Now, the doctors said that you need to sleep. Will you sleep?"

Eric nods.

Maggie moves to stand by Con, leaning down to place a soft kiss on Eric's forehead. "I love you, Eric. Your father does, too."

She doesn't say anything else before walking away, and Grant finds himself staring at the empty door to the room, something that's not quite jealousy burning in his chest. Would his parents be so accepting? They would come if he were direly ill, probably. Hopefully. But they wouldn't trust him like Maggie trusts Eric. They certainly wouldn't react so placidly if he threw down the fact that he has a boyfriend with no warning or work-up.

Eric lies back down, his eyes closing for a moment before being forced back open again. "Thank you. I'm sorry if that was awkward for you."

"It was fine." It's Combeferre who answers, in soft French, one hand reaching up to tease at the hair by Eric's left ear, tucking it back into place. "You're trying to protect your family."

"We don't want to see anyone else hurt, Combeferre." Enjolras leans into the touch, his eyes closing again. He seems to have more trouble than Eric at speaking still, but he stays in French now, a vast improvement from a few hours before.

"I know. I suspect you've already seen too much pain and death." There is infinite gentleness in Con's voice, and he continues to stroke Eric's hair.

Grant wonders, once more, if he should go, if he should leave this moment to Combeferre and Enjolras, Con and Eric. As soon as he shifts, though, his sneakers squeaking on the tile floor, Eric's hand darts out, locking onto his shirt-sleeve with fierce strength.

"Stay. Please." Enjolras' fingers loosen their hold. "Unless you wish to leave. I won't hold anyone by me against their will. You know that, right?"

Grantaire slides forward, takes control, and Grant happily lets him. "I know, Enjolras."

"We know. We're all here because we want to be." Combeferre looks across at Grantaire, his expression troubled. "I'd like you to tell us about what happened last night, Enjolras. If it won't hurt you too badly, I think it's safer for us to try to broach the topic here, where medical aid is available."

Grantaire can feel sweat start to collect on his palms, though his body is cold, not enough clothing on for how high they have the air conditioning, and he doesn't know if he can do this. He doesn't know if he can stand here and watch Enjolras relive the event that almost killed him. Perhaps it's selfish of him, but he doesn't know if he can handle hearing whatever could possibly be done to Enjolras to hurt him this badly, to hear the other half of the conversations he bore helpless witness to last night.

"Grantaire." Combeferre's voice calls Grantaire's head up. "If you wish to stay, you are, of course, welcome. If you don't, though, I would very much like another cup of coffee. Would you like some coffee, Enjolras?"

"Yes." Enjolras' voice is quiet. "I would."

It's a barely-veiled ploy, a way to give Grantaire a reason not to have to hear.

He still takes it and runs, giving Enjolras' shoulder one quick pat before he does.

XXX

Combeferre waits for Grantaire to be gone. Then he gently disentangles his hand from Enjolras', flexing his fingers to bring feeling back to them.

Enjolras watches him, his eyes still not quite… right. Better than they had been, infinitely better, as his speech is infinitely better, but there's still wary panic lurking just beneath the surface, and it shouldn't be so. Enjolras shouldn't _flinch_ when Combeferre turns to look for somewhere to sit. "Don't worry. I'm just getting a chair and getting more comfortable. I'm not going anywhere, Grantaire will be back shortly, and the others are all close, if it's one of them that you need."

Shaking his head, Enjolras turns away. "I don't need them right now, not if they've other things to be doing. I'm much better."

Settling down in the chair, Combeferre smiles at his friend. "It's good to hear you say that. It's good to hear you talking so clearly."

"I'm sorry." Enjolras' voice falters, just slightly. "I'm sorry I frightened you. I shouldn't—"

"Being injured is not a thing to apologize for, as I've said before." Reaching out to take Enjolras' hand in his, Combeferre gives it a gentle squeeze. "I am relieved to see you recovering, but you bear no guilt for what happened."

Enjolras nods, but there's still that slight uncertainty to his expression that Combeferre doesn't like.

"Now." Tightening his hold on Enjolras' fingers, Combeferre tries hard not to let his own unease show. "Tell me truthfully. Could you discuss what happened? Could you explain to me what was done to you, or will it be too painful?"

Enjolras considers the question for a good thirty seconds before shrugging, the movement awkward and jerky. "I will try. That's all I can promise."

"That's all I ask." Reaching over to stroke hair away from Enjolras' face, Combeferre smiles again at his friend.

"I was on the barricade. It was after we sent away those we could." Enjolras shifts, his eyes closing, his body tensing sharply. "It felt real, even more real than most of the dreams have, there would have been no way for me to know it wasn't. I started to feel… unwell. It was hot, terribly hot, I couldn't think properly, I couldn't _stand_, and…"

Enjolras cuts off abruptly, his hands balling into fists, his body tensed as though for a blow.

"And what, Enjolras?" Combeferre reaches forward again, his fingers brushing along Enjolras' forehead, giving contact, trying to give comfort. "If it hurts too much, you don't have to tell me. It's fine."

"You were angry at me." The words are a soft whisper. "You and Courfeyrac, you helped me into the Corinth, and you… you said there was nothing wrong with me, that I was frightening the men, that I chose wrong in who we sent away. You were both so disappointed in me… and then Jean and Bahorel were there, I thought, I saw them, their ghosts, and they said I was a coward, but you and Courfeyrac said I had merely lost my mind and—"

Enjolras starts shaking, visibly, his eyes dilating again, staring fixedly at something that Combeferre can't see, his lips moving just slightly in soundless conversation.

"Enjolras?" Combeferre moves to pull his friend into an embrace, his voice rising in concern.

Enjolras' hand on his chest stays his movement, and Enjolras' eyes finally focus on him again, though his movements are still too abrupt, too jerky and sharp. "No. Let me finish. I need to finish. You need to hear. You were angry. Disappointed. And then I passed out, I don't know for how long, but I woke to fighting. I tried to help. I tried to help Feuilly. And he stabbed me, here." Enjolras' hand drops to his side, covers a non-existent wound, and Combeferre suddenly understands some of the movements his friend has made over the last few hours. "I was dying. I was delirious. It _hurt_ so much, having reality so _broken_, having those _thoughts_ in my head, and then… then it came for me. It sank its claws into my chest, bit my neck, and I… I could feel it… It's a terrible thing, Combeferre. Such a terrible thing, made out of hatred and fear and despair, and I can still _feel it in me_—"

"Hush. Hush, Enjolras." Combeferre leans forward, wrapping his arms around his friend's shoulders, pulling him close. For a moment Enjolras fights him, tense, his breathing harsh and fast in Combeferre's ears. Then he relaxes, slowly.

"This is real." Enjolras whispers the words, his fingers latching onto Combeferre's shirt. "This is real, and everything I am rebels at what it showed me, says it was _wrong_, but I still couldn't find a way out. I couldn't… I couldn't reach Eric. I couldn't _remember_ as I should have. And the thoughts… terrible thoughts… not mine, but etched into me, burned into me like the memories are, and I don't know how to make them go away. I don't know how to be _me_ again."

"You can only ever be you." Combeferre holds Enjolras as close to him as he can, as tightly as he can. "No matter what is done to you, no matter what you saw or what changes, you will always be the man I respect and love. The time period won't change that. Loss won't change that. And nothing this monster does to you will change that, either. Be gentler on yourself, Enjolras. If something like this happened to one of us, what would you say?"

"I would tell you to rest." Enjolras swallows. "I would tell you to take what time you need to heal. I would ask what I can do for you."

"Yes. And that is all we ask of you, as well. Rest. Heal. Tell us where we can help." Combeferre pulls back slowly, so that he can meet Enjolras' gaze. "When you say that there were thoughts in your head that didn't belong, what do you mean?"

"I mean… there were thoughts that didn't belong to me. Loud thoughts. _Hot_ thoughts." Enjolras' eyes are unfocused, and an accent touches his voice, a hint of English underlying his French. "Alone. Die alone. Hopeless. Pointless. Die with me. I don't… we can't…"

"All right. That's enough. Focus on me, Enjolras. Look at me."

Combeferre meets Enjolras' eyes, holds Enjolras' shoulders tight until the blond's breathing slows, his shivering fading to a faint tremble.

"Are you well?" Combeferre strokes Enjolras' hair again, missing Courfeyrac at his side. Courfeyrac would know how to give comfort with a touch, how to drown out the uncertainty in warmth and love. "Can you talk with me?"

"I'm… as well as I can be." Enjolras grimaces, his voice still accented, more of Eric in it than Combeferre likes. "It wasn't _me_, Combeferre. How did it do this to me?"

"I don't know. We'll figure it out, though." Settling slowly back down in his chair, keeping a vice-tight grip on Enjolras' hand, Combeferre considers what he's heard so far. Most has been simply filling in the gaps, confirming what he had guessed from Eric and Enjolras' rambling before, but some of it is new.

Heat.

Thoughts that don't belong.

Violation on a fundamental level, and he lifts his head to meet his friend's gaze again, understanding but not liking the fear in Enjolras' eyes.

"How did you escape?" Running his thumb over the back of Enjolras' hand, Combeferre asks the question quietly. "If you can tell me—"

"I remembered." Enjolras shivers. "I knew it was wrong, and I kept fighting until I remembered. Feuilly didn't stab me. I didn't watch him die afterward. I remembered… another nightmare, I think, but it was more… true. His blood on me. His eyes. Pain. Followed it into the dark, and found Eric. _Woke him_. Saved each other."

"Enjolras. Eric." Combeferre speaks the name sharply, giving a tug on Enjolras' hand, trying not to let his own fear and Con's mix and overwhelm them as Enjolras starts slipping between languages again.

"Sorry." Enjolras flinches back, his voice slowing, each word carefully pronounced. "It wasn't just Eric there. Lots of voices. Lots of _me_. It… was good, because we needed all our strength. We struck at it, and the beast let us go. We escaped. We survived. And they didn't wake, not entirely. Knew they shouldn't. Wouldn't survive it. But had to break free. Have to be free."

Enjolras' eyes close, and Combeferre pulls him once more into a fierce embrace. "You did well. You survived. I think… I think you used your soul-wound, to fight it. That's a part of why you're having so much difficulty. But you'll get it sorted out, Enjolras. You'll be fine. You'll scrub whatever it tried to mark you with from your soul, and you'll be fine."

"I'll be fine." Enjolras repeats the words in a quiet voice, and his trembling finally stops as he rests his head against Combeferre's shoulder. "You're all here, and I'll be fine."

"Yes." One hand around Eric's chest, one on the back of his head, Combeferre gives the affirmation and brushes his lips against Enjolras' temple before allowing Conlan to regain control of their body.

Drawing a deep breath, Con lets it out slowly and continues to hold his injured friend, giving comfort, giving protection, giving all that he can and hoping it will be enough. "You're going to be just fine, Eric."

After just a second's hesitation Eric responds with a soft, "Yes."

It's not as determined as it should be. It's lacking some of the unshakable faith that Con always associated with Eric. But at least it's an affirmation.

_We have to have faith in him._ Combeferre's voice is quiet determination. _It's made him doubt, Con, burned it into him. We can cry later. We can be angry later. Right now, we need to be strong._

_I know._ Con can feel a smile cross his face as Combeferre's passion pushes away his own doubts. _I have every faith that he'll come through this. It's just… daunting. But he survived. He almost tore himself apart doing it, but he survived. How could we give up on him after a display of bravery like that?_

A soft knock comes from the door, so tentative that Con almost doesn't hear it. Eric hears it, though, his head coming up and his body tensing, though he doesn't pull away from Con.

"Hey." Grant stands just inside the door. He holds a tray with three coffee cups in front of him, almost defensively, and his eyes are red-rimmed and puffy though his face is dry. "Am I interrupting?"

"Grant." Eric reaches out to Grant with his right hand, a tentative smile on his face. "Thank you."

It's not clear what the thanks is for, but it's clear how Grant chooses to interpret it as he edges into the room with a shrug. "No trouble. I said that I'd get coffee, coffee is here. Black all around, though I brought some of those cream and sugar packets if anyone wants some."

"Thank you, Grant." Con takes the coffee cup that Grant holds out to him, as does Eric. Watching Eric blow on the hot liquid, Con frowns. "Though, on second thought, I'm not sure coffee's going to be good for you right now. You should really get some sleep, Eric."

Eric turns a look on him that makes Con feel like he just suggested the sun orbited the earth.

"You're going to have to sleep, my friend." Con frowns, recognizing a bit too much Combeferre leaking into his words. They're both in agreement on this, though—on everything in the past twelve hours, really—and he supposes it doesn't matter all that much. "Your body needs sleep to heal, likely your mind and soul as well."

"I was sleeping when I was injured." Eric looks away, a touch of a French accent underlying his words. "I… if it does to me again what it did to me last night…"

"I don't think it can. I think, if it had the power to do _that_ at any time, it would have done it already. It wouldn't have played games with us for four months. I'm… working on theories as to how it happened, but the main thing is I don't think it can trap you there again. Besides, it's light out. It very rarely stalks our dreams during the day. And Grant and I will be right here, to wake you." Eric still isn't facing him, and Con reaches out to touch his friend's arm. "You have to sleep sometime, Eric. Enjolras. We all do. Best to try it here, where we have medical help available if anything _does_ go wrong. All right?"

Eric's eyes go to the window, where daylight has well and truly dawned, heat and humidity already starting to build up with the light. Finally he nods, the motion still not quite right, and settles down on the bed with his eyes closed.

Con looks across at Grant. "You should draw up a chair. We won't be going anywhere for a while."

XXX

It doesn't take Eric even five minutes to fall asleep once he allows himself to.

He looks young. He looks vulnerable, the bruise on his neck standing out in stark relief from his pale skin. Grant finds his eyes fixing on the bruise again and again, tracing the lines of it, from the topmost tip below Eric's jaw to where it disappears under the hospital gown. His hand twitches toward the injury before he can stop it, and he forces his rebellious fingers back down into his lap.

What's he hoping to do? Hide the damage under Eric's hair? Touch the bruise and make it better somehow? Reassure himself that Eric's skin is the right temperature, that Eric isn't burning up again?

Eric needs sleep. He doesn't need Grant pawing at him, touching him, trying to get a reassurance that Eric can't give him right now.

_I can still feel it in me._

_Burned into me._

The words echo in his head, too loud, and he didn't mean to eavesdrop. It was better, though, that he hear that way. Better that Eric not have to watch his reactions.

_We want to help him. We want to comfort him._ Grantaire knows that Enjolras wouldn't want his comfort, but the desire to give it burns in him anyway.

_He told us to stay._ Grant clenches his hands into fists. _So we stay, even if we know we shouldn't. I'm so scared we're not what he needs, Grantaire. He's talking now, he's _thinking_ now, but he still says things that are _wrong_. He still apologizes when he shouldn't. He's_…

_If he's broken, that's it._ There's almost a sense of relief in the overwhelming despair that fills Grantaire's thoughts. _If his light is gone, there's nothing left for us._

"Boyfriend, huh?"

Grant blinks, his head jerking up, his eyes eventually focusing on Con.

Con rests calmly in a chair on the other side of Eric's bed from Grant's own chair. Con's hands rest in his lap, cradling his cup of coffee, and he studies Grant intently, his face implacable.

"Yeah." For a moment Grant meets Con's eyes, defiant. Then he remembers the way Eric's smiled every time Con's entered the room in the last few hours, and his eyes drop away.

"For how long?" Con's question sounds far too calm and easy, as though they were discussing the weather or seagulls or something else ridiculous and ubiquitous.

"Uh…" Grant studies the nearest clock until the numbers make sense. "About ten hours now, give or take."

"Ah." Con inclines his head in a slow nod. "I imagine that makes this even harder."

"I'm not sure _anything_ could make this harder. It's _him_. It's—"

"You've always been very attached to him."

"He's everything. He's all that I want the world to be and know it's not. He's all that I wish I could be, could _believe_, and know that I can't." Grant meets Con's eyes again. "And I am absolutely terrified that it might be gone. I'm so scared it…"

"Me, too." Con smiles. "Believe me, I understand. I don't like seeing him like this, either. But he won't be like this forever. How much did you overhear?"

"I…" Grant blushes, eyes on the floor. "Just the end, I think. That it… burned something into him."

"Sank its teeth and claws into him. Forced thoughts into his head that didn't belong." Con's voice changes, because more distant, more musing. "Heat. Back to heat. It said it wanted us to start the conflagration. A fire with Eric's handwriting. Eric running impossibly high fevers while blood words are written on his chest. There's a thought there, and remind me to come back to it, but it's not what I want to focus on right now. I need to know what you're planning on doing, Grant."

"I'm… not really planning anything. I'm kind of taking everything a step at a time. A very slow, small step at a time right now." Grant finds his eyes tracking back to Eric, studying his sleeping face.

"Have faith in him, Grant." Con's voice is quiet intensity. "You've always had faith in him. Don't let this shake that."

"He said… it sank its claws into his chest, like it did with Erin. Bit his neck, which is creepy as hell and _not_ like what it did with her. Do you think… is that…"

"I think that's when it does whatever it does to us that results in significant blood loss." Con's head tilts to the side, just slightly, his words coming faster as he thinks out loud. "I think… that's when it takes what it really wants. That's when it's able to get through our psyches, to take more than just pain or anger or fear… to get at our souls. At our core. Does that make sense?"

Grant nods numbly. "It makes sense. It also means… what, that the monster made off with a chunk of his _soul_? You said that was the basis of who we _are_, Con. Body and mind and soul, and you said… how do you come back from something like that?"

"Erin has." Con studies Eric's face, his expression withdrawn, distant. Not hopeless, though. Not despondent or despairing, and Grant draws some comfort from that. "And this is still so much speculation on my part that I wouldn't get too worked up about it. He was hurt; he's healing; he'll be himself, in time. In the meantime, we make it pay for what it did. For trying to break him. For trying to change him. For _cheating_."

There's absolute hatred and rage in Con's voice, something that Grant doesn't think he's ever heard before.

_Don't hurt Enjolras._ Grantaire's voice is actually amused as he considers Combeferre. _Don't hurt any of us, really. Combeferre may be a doctor, and a damn good one, but he will defend that which he loves with exceptional vigor._

_I think the same could be said for any of them._ Grant finds himself smiling, too, as he considers the Independents. _Fierce and loyal and wonderful. Though not all doctors. Just two of them. Or one and a half. If Con ever settles on a major the university will be very disappointed._

"That looks a little bit better." Con smiles. "You don't look quite so ready to either break and run or break down crying."

"I won't run. He told me to stay." Grant shrugs, a wry smile on his own face. "And I'm a guy. Guys don't cry."

"I swear, you try to say the most intentionally infuriating things." Con's eyes narrow, and he takes another sip of his coffee. "Cry if you need to. I might, at some point. But don't run. Don't get so upset whenever he apologizes or trips over his words or otherwise shows that he's hurt. Don't make him pretend to be better than he is. He is only human, Grant, though he's a damn fantastic human. Stand beside him and help him. It's clearly what he wants, if he chose you as his boyfriend."

Grant swallows, looking away from Con. "I've never been very good at standing beside him."

Con shrugs. "Learn. We'll help you."

"You're not…" Grant shifts uncomfortably. "You don't… you're not jealous?"

For several seconds Con doesn't answer, his eyes just slightly unfocused, his attention clearly on Combeferre. Then Con smiles, a soft, pleased, happy expression, and gives an elegant shrug. "What do I have to be jealous of? It's Eric's choice who he takes to his bed, though I will admit to being surprised he's decided to take anyone there. It doesn't affect the relationship he and I have—the relationship he and I have apparently had for the last two hundred years. As long as you're not jealous…?"

"No." It's mostly true. He's not jealous of Con. Or, rather, not in any way that would normally count as jealousy. He wishes he had Con's ability to understand and interact with Eric on a fast, instinctual level. But it doesn't really matter, because Eric chose him. Even if disaster almost immediately followed, _Eric chose him_. "I'm glad he's got you and the others—glad _I_ have you and the others. Do you… you really think him and I can make it work?"

"Yes. I think you'll have hard times, and I think you'll have to work at it, both of you, but if you want it and you're willing to put the effort into it…" Con takes another drink and smiles. "Yes. And I will give you or him any help that I can. Which, at the moment, means watching you sleep."

Grant shakes his head. "I don't want—"

"You were up half the night. You had to sit with him, helpless, while he went through all of that. You need some sleep. And once you've had some rest, I'll wake you up and we'll trade. I'll sleep and you'll watch Eric and I. All right?"

Grant's eyes are gritty. His hands are shaky, from a mixture of caffeine and exhaustion and a thousand other emotions. He's not sure he's ever been more tired, but the thought of sleep is absolutely unappealing.

"Grant." Con's voice has a note of warning. "You heard what I told him. Don't make me repeat myself. You are not allowed to be more stubborn than Eric."

"Well, that's something we might have to disagree about in the future. But for now…" Grant straightens, leaning forward, over the hospital bed, his right hand hovering over Eric's face, over his hair, over the bruise on Eric's neck, though he doesn't touch the sleeping man.

Eric's doing his best to fight through what was done to him, to piece his mind back together, to suture the holes ripped in his soul.

That _thing_ dared to do this to him.

To steal something fundamental from Eric, from Enjolras, to take a part of that light that makes them shine so brightly, and for what?

To destroy?

To threaten?

To intimidate?

A static spark jumps from the bed frame to Grant's left hand, stinging sharply, and he pulls back in one quick, startled movement, shaking the affronted hand. "I think right now I'll trust that you're smarter than me, Con. Make sure to wake me if you get too tired, though. We don't want to leave him defenseless."

"It's Eric. He's never defenseless. Now go to sleep, Grant."

Grant settles down in his chair. It isn't comfortable. The room's still too cold for his liking, and he crosses his arms over his chest.

He's asleep within seconds.

He half-wakes a few minutes later, when someone gently drapes a blanket over him, but can't find the energy to do much more than curl his fingers into the fabric before sleep claims him entirely again.

XXX

"You don't have to worry." Barry's voice is cheerful. "I'll be watching out for you. The second you so much as twitch, I'll be waking you up."

"I suspect I won't get too much sleep, then." Jean tries and fails to suppress a yawn as he arranges the blankets on the air mattress again. "Because I tend to move around in my sleep a lot."

"I'd prefer you getting not quite enough sleep to you getting your mind and soul sliced and diced, so I'm sticking to my theory that twitch equates to waking." Barry settles down on the ground next to Jean's air mattress, his back propped against the wall. He has a collection of books on one side of him, a handheld gaming console with a heap of games on the other, and his laptop settled in his lap. "Especially since you apparently don't know when the better part of valor bit comes in."

"Like _you're_ one to talk. You…" Jean trails off, realizing that all of the examples his sleep-deprived mind is providing him with don't actually belong to _him_. They're Jehan's memories, and though the man in them is hauntingly, achingly similar to Barry, they aren't exactly the same.

"I have done and will continue to do some fantastically dumb things. In this life and many others, I'm guessing." Barry sets his laptop aside, on top of the precarious pile of games. "And I would have to say I'm glad that you don't understand when sane people would cut and run. If you want to get away from us, if you want to pretend that none of this is happening… I don't think any of us would blame you?"

Jean considers the suggestion. "And then what? Who do I turn to when the shadow comes for me then?"

Barry snorts. "I said saner option, not wiser one. And we'd still be here when you came running back for help. Well, whatever help we can provide."

"Better help than anyone else can. At least you believe me." Jean runs a hand down his scratched cheek, feeling gently at the scabs there. "You know I'm not crazy. About anything. Supernatural or mundane."

Inclining his head, Barry allows his grin to fade, a serious expression taking its place. "If you don't want to talk about it—any of it—we don't have to. I won't tell anyone without your permission. Given how much you look like Jehan, I don't think any of the others will notice unless we decide to go swimming. Some might not even notice then."

"So you did notice." Jean props himself up on his elbows, studying Barry intently. "I thought you had."

"It was hard not to when I was picking you up and hauling you around." Barry shrugs. "Doesn't matter to me what sex you were born as or what gender you want to present as. I think the others would take it pretty well, too, but I know we're still barely acquaintances, so take your time."

"It's a hard thing to decide, every time. At least for me." Jean pulls the red-dyed strip of hair around, braiding it with a nearby strip of black. "I love it when I pass. I love it when people see me and accept me as who I see myself as, without my having to fight tooth and nail for the recognition. At the same time, it's… I know how important it is to be open about being trans if I want to help change things systematically. And I really do, for myself and for others. For all the other trans people who want to be themselves. For all the girls who like sports and cars and fighting and don't want their femininity questioned because of it. For all the boys who want to write and play music and openly care about things without being equated to a girl as though it were a bad thing."

"That must've made it doubly hard for you." Barry's half-smile manages to convey both sympathy and respect. "Identifying as male but not buying into standard masculine culture."

"Not all of it, at least. I _can_ throw a punch with the best of them, thanks to a few years of karate. My learning to defend myself was my parents' requirement before accepting my publically changing my gender identity." Jean's fingers trace a faint scar on his right upper arm, the _other_ thing that had convinced his parents that they needed to support him rather than attempting to change him. "I am male. I'm also a writer and a musician and not afraid of crying. I break all the rules."

"I'm all about breaking rules. At least those that deserve to be broken." Another wide, pleased grin crosses Barry's face. "And the rest of your new acquaintances tend to feel the same."

"New acquaintances but not." Jean tilts his head to the side, studying Barry, matching his expressions and looks to Bahorel. "It's part of what makes it so complicated. I feel… I feel like I know you. I know that it's Jehan's feelings. I can see his memories, if I try, understand why he feels the way he does. It's fascinating, and so easy to fall into, and I keep having to remind myself that it's not real…"

"Except it is real. We lived and fought and died together." Barry's fingers dig into the carpet, his grin fading a bit. "Probably multiple times, given how Eric was speaking earlier and just, well, looking at us. I know what you mean about it being odd—about feeling like you know us but knowing that you don't. It was like that for me, when I met the rest of them. Except not quite so crazy, because there wasn't the shadow monster assaulting us like this."

"It's complicated. Amazing and terrifying and wonderful and horrible and complicated." A soft half-laugh falls from his lips, and Jean pushes his hair back and shakes his head. "What more could a poet ask for?"

"A weapon that kills shadows. That would be a good thing." Giving his quick, infectious grin again, Barry turns both hands palm-up. "Otherwise, a handful of good friends to share the experience with, but I think you've got that. Or will have it."

"I've got it. I might question my emotions—it's what writers do—but I don't tend to doubt them. I think, even if I didn't remember, that I would like you. And trust you." Jean smiles. "Just like I'll trust the others. I'll tell them about being trans as soon as no one's attempting to die."

"That might be a while. But I'm sure they'll be happy to hear whenever you're comfortable sharing. Now, go to sleep. I need a little bit of daylight in which to sleep myself, so you have to get some shut-eye." Barry makes a little shooing motion with his hand, reaches into his shirt pocket, and pulls out a pair of reading glasses.

Jean stares at the glasses.

Grinning again, Barry taps the frames. "Don't tell anyone. I only tend to use them when I'm tired or planning on doing a lot of reading."

"My lips are sealed." Jean finds himself grinning, as well, a surge of warmth and affection running through him. Curling up, he tries to fall asleep.

It's harder than it should be. He's beyond exhausted, in mind and body, but he can't seem to get his thoughts to stop running in circles, skimming from his dream to the heady fear of waking up to Jona and Lyle yelling for Maria to the strange, disconnected trip through the dark to the hospital.

He doesn't know Eric well, but he's liked what he's seen.

Jehan knows Enjolras very well, adored him as he adores all his close friends, and his grief and anger and fierce determination has seeped into all of Jean's memories of the early morning.

A dear friend almost died last night.

He needs to sleep, so he can either hurt the monster that did the damage or fall to it himself.

But the birds won't stop singing, the sun is far too bright outside his eyelids, and adrenaline keeps pounding through his veins as snippets of memory from the last twenty-four hours mix and mingle, creating half-finished sentences and verses that he itches to write down.

_This isn't working very well._ Jehan's voice is tired. _So much different in your world, and yet still no cure for a poet's insomnia._

_I wouldn't want a cure. Some of my best writing is done at night._ Jean finds himself smiling as he touches his doppleganger's thoughts again. No matter how terrifying everything else might get, having this, experiencing _this_, is worth it all. _But Barry's probably going to get upset if we turn over again._

_Yes._ Jehan sighs, and then a hint of mischievousness touches his thoughts. _Though there is one other thing we could try…_

Picking up his pillow, acting on tired impulse, Jean closes the distances between himself and Barry. Barry looks up from the book he's reading, clearly startled. Dropping the pillow down on Barry's lap, curling up on the floor with the comforting mass of Bahorel looming over him, Jean closes his eyes. Sliding into French, allowing Jehan to slip more to the fore, Jean speaks quietly. "Do you mind if I sleep like this?"

"I… no." Barry's fingers glance lightly across his hair. "I suppose… Jehan used to curl up with a lot of the Amis. If you're comfortable there, if I won't disturb you, please. Sleep."

He knows he'll be able to as soon as he settles down. It's strange. It shouldn't be that big a difference, but there's comfort in the warmth of Barry's legs by him, in the gentle sushing of Barry's breath in and out, in the contact of another human being. It also seems darker by Barry, somehow, a dimming of the light that Jehan hadn't been able to escape before. Shadows, but protective, not frightening, filled with potential rather than horror, and Jean burrows his face down into the pillow.

A contented sigh slips from his lips, and Jean gladly welcomes Morpheus and his dreams.

XXX

"Cori's going to grab a little bit of sleep with Finny, then swing by the hospital again to offer Con some better coffee and food before coming back over, if everyone here's all right with that." Mark pulls his phone away from him, forcing his eyes to sort the lumps of text into coherency. "Also, Eric's stable and doing much better, we should watch the news but not panic, and we should call Cori if we need him. And we should sleep in shifts, while it's light. And we shouldn't worry too much, he's sure the shadow cheated. And I shouldn't say that's not very comforting. Which isn't fair, because it's _not_ very comforting. If it can cheat once, it can—oh, and he hopes we're all doing well."

Mark waits, but no other texts appear on his phone.

Lowering the phone, he looks between Erin and Gary. "Well? Are we doing all right without him?"

Erin smiles at him, shaking her head in something that looks like exasperation. "We're doing just fine. Tell him we're just watching some really bad sci-fi shows, and I'm glad to hear that it should be safe to go to sleep. For relative definitions of safe."

"You're right, too. If the shadow-thin's cheated once, it'll cheat again." Gary shoves another handful of crackers into his mouth. The boy's gone through all of Mark's cupboards several times, always reappearing with something else to eat.

"Are we actually goin' to sleep?" Erin stares dubiously toward the bedroom.

"Uh…" Mark follows her gaze, a shiver running down his spine. They've been getting periodic updates from Cori throughout the early morning. After hearing how Jean, Maria, and Eric were all injured, sleep doesn't seem like a very good idea. Then again, Cori said they should sleep, and he _is_ tired. Maybe things will be better sleeping in shifts. "I think we should try sleeping. Probably. What do you think?"

"I think I'm goin' out." Gary stands, the box of crackers still held in his hand. "I'm not goin' t' sleep anytime soon. I'm goin' t' see if anyone knows anythin' that'll help us. I'll be back this evenin', 'specially if you cook that pizza in the freezer."

"I don't think you should—" Mark reaches for Gary's shoulder, but the boy's already over at the door, slipping into his shoes. "Erin? Don't you think he should stay with us?"

"I think he should come back here to sleep. Hear that, runt?" Erin waits for Gary to stick his tongue out at her. "Otherwise, let 'im do what he wants. He's a smart kid. Might be he'll find somethin' useful out that all your rich-boy friends haven' found."

Mark frowns as Gary slips out the door on soundless feet. He's fairly certain that letting preteens run around without supervision is a bad idea. If Erin doesn't want to stop her brother, though, he suspects that his interfering wouldn't be appreciated. "What about you and me, then?"

"What about us?" Erin smiles at him, an expression that changes after a second from vaguely suggestive to slighty sad. "Are you doin' all right?"

"I'm worried about them. If there hadn't already been a herd descending on the hospital, I would gladly have gone with Cori, but…"

"But there were already nine people tryin' to see him. Addin' us to the mix just would've complicated things." Erin shrugs. "You want t' go see him now? Or some of the others?"

"It sounds like everyone else is trying to commit suicide by shadow-demon, sleeping after everything that happened." Mark frowns, then shakes his head. "No. That's not fair. They're trying to make the best of a bad situation. If Eric isn't out of the hospital by this afternoon, I'd like to go see him. Would you want to come with me?"

Erin chews on her lip for a moment before nodding. "Yeah. I would. He's a good guy. He didn't deserve havin' that thing come after 'im like this."

"Maybe…" Mark shoves his hands in his back pockets. "I mean, maybe you could even help him. It sounds like the shadow did what it did to you to him, but a lot worse, so maybe…"

"Maybe." Erin smiles again, a quick flash of crooked teeth that lights up her expression. "I'd like t' be able to give them somethin', after all they've done for me. All you've done for me."

"So. We'll hang out here, and I'm sure the two of us will be fine without Cori, and then we'll go see Eric during visiting hours this afternoon." Mark nods. "Sounds like a plan."

Erin hesitates, opens her mouth, and then sighs. "It does. It's a good plan, even. Slight problem with your plan—and with Cori's suggestion that we sleep—is that we're supposed to be showin' your dead girlfriend a good time this afternoon."

"Cosette!" Mark exclaims the name, a wave of affection from Marius carrying the French word to his lips. "I mean, Courtney. You're right. Ah, thanks, Erin. I can't believe I almost forgot."

"Well, despite the light outside, it still doesn't quite feel like morning. I'm sure you would have remembered eventually." Erin face closes off, and she draws her feet up onto the couch, curling them underneath her. "Have you decided what you're wearing? Or where you're taking us?"

"No." Mark can feel his eyes widening. "Does it matter what I wear? I mean, I was just going to wear normal clothes. Good clothes, obviously, but… though, given what's happened, maybe we shouldn't see her. Maybe we should call it off. God, Erin, what will I do if we meet her and the creature targets her because of it?"

_We won't hurt her._ Marius' voice is utterly determined. _We will sacrifice all our happiness, our life, our soul, before we will see her hurt._

Mark draws a sharp breath, feeling the overwhelming flood of emotion that is associated with Cosette sweep out from Marius once more.

"And if you don't go talk to her, and it targets her and she has no one to turn to?" Erin makes the suggestion in a quiet, emotionless voice.

That's an even more terrible thing to consider, somehow, and Mark finds his breath catching in his throat. If he meets with her, he might endanger her. If he doesn't, she might be injured without ever knowing what's stalking her.

It's an impossible conundrum.

"Ah, don' look like that." Erin moves toward him, taking his hand in a firm grip. "It doesn't suit you. Pretty rich boy's shouldn' look so lost. As Con would say, knowledge is power. Let's meet our lovely little Corsette, and decide what to do from there."

"Cor—don't do that." Mark finds the panic disappearing on a wave of laughter and affection. "That's mean, Erin. Her name is Courtney now, and that's what we're going to call her."

"Right. Corsette." Erin stands, tugging him toward the bedroom. "Now, show me what clothes you have and we'll get you dressed up all pretty for your date."


	28. Part Twenty-Eight: Restart

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay. Between my beta's life and mine, things got behind again. Hopefully the chapter is enjoyable anyway. Next week, more shadow! A few other things: _first_, for those interested, I am offering to write prompts for Barricade Day. Just send me a private message with the prompts (or put it in a review if you don't mind other's seeing it/don't do private messaging) and I will attempt to get drabbles/short fics written and posted around the 5th-6th. _Second_, I may post a few little one-shots in this 'verse of things I have written and clipped due to pacing because this plot is not progressing like I want it to and I don't want to bore people. They're short character moments, for the most part (eg Con cleaning Eric's blood out of the shower, Cori and Con having a heart-to-heart during this whole mess), but I wanted to feel out interest.

_Part Twenty-Eight: Restart_

James is just finishing the last in a series of frustrating on-site interrogations when he sees the child slip under the police cordone and dart toward the building.

Gary's fast; James is faster, and has a hand on the boy's collar before he can flee back across the police line. Frowning down in annoyance at the child, James resists the urge to give the boy's shirt a good shake. Just because James' head hurts and he's exhausted from too little sleep for too many days doesn't mean he has any right to abuse his authority. "What are you doing here, boy?"

"Detective Santiago." Gary squirms, affirming that James has a stable enough grip on his shirt to keep him from escaping, and then stands defiantly, his arms crossed in front of his chest. "Heard 'bout the fire, wanted t' see what it was like."

"It's dangerous." James begins walking, keeping hold of the child's shirt, and the boy follows without much fuss. "This is an active police investigation, and once we're done there's going to be a lot of work needed before this area is safe. Do you want to be injured?"

"Course not." Gary gives a brief bark of laughter. "You're 'ere, though, so that's apparently no' a problem."

"I'm here because this is my job."

Gary cranes his head around to study the building. "Standin' in burned-out husks is your job? Cool. Guess I could be a cop."

"No, interviewing anyone who might have seen anything is part of my job, and is what I was doing." James finds himself gritting his teeth as he thinks back on the last few hours' worth of frustration. None of the vagabonds or indigent that he's spoken to have been able to give him any useful information. Those who admitted to seeing anything claimed that the words came blazing out of nowhere, scrawling themselves in fire on the side of the building. Perhaps they'll find evidence of some kind of timer and fuse that could have been used to light the accelerant; perhaps he's been lied to. Neither possibility would surprise him. Dragging his thoughts back to the present and the boy he's escorting, James glares at Gary. "You, however, are attempting to trespass on a crime scene. I could have you charged for that, you know."

"Y' could." Gary shrugs. "Nothin' I could do t' stop it, if y' wanted to."

Releasing Gary's shirt once they're back across the cordone, James gets his bearings and then points toward the low-income housing developments where Gary's parents live. "Get home. Don't come back. I don't want to waste time or paperwork when there's more important things to do."

"Have y' found anythin' useful, then?" Gary doesn't move, continuing to stare up at James, and James frowns as he gets a better look at the boy.

Gary's clean. Both his clothes and his body look like they've been carefully scrubbed within the last twenty-four hours—no, scratch that, the clothes look _new_. James can't remember a time when Gary's been in new clothes in all his years watching the boy be corrupted by his family and his neighbors. There's also an eagerness and a shine to Gary's eyes that James isn't sure he's seen before, something lurking there besides hunger and mischievousness and misdirected intelligence.

Gary scowls, hands crossed over his chest again. "What're y' lookin' at?"

"Where've you been staying, Gary?" James leans down so that he's closer to eye-level with the child. "Have you found somewhere to be besides your parent's place?"

"Been stayin' with my sister." Gary continues to stare at James, defiance on his face. "Got a problem with that?"

"No." James smiles. "If you're both away from your parents, I'm glad for you."

"I didn' say that. Didn' say anythin'." Gary's scowl only deepens. "And it's not fair, answerin' a question with a question."

"The arson investigation isn't your concern. Your well-being as a citizen of this town is my concern." James straightens again. "I can promise you, we're going to catch the people responsible for this and make them pay for their crimes. We're not going to let them destroy anything else."

"Them? Y' think there's a group?" Gary leans forward, his eagerness written on his face, and James finds himself suppressing a smile.

"You're not good enough at interrogation to get information out of me, Gary. Go home." James makes a small shooing motion with his right hand and turns back toward the burned-out building.

"You think it's them, don't you?"

James stops, turning back to face Gary. "I said go home."

There's a curious expression on Gary's face, one of mixed triumph and horror. "I'm righ'. Oh holy fuckin' fi'ry hell, I'm righ'. Y' got t' listen t' me, Detective, they ain' the ones who did this. They're good guys. You're bein' used. You—"

"Gary." James cuts off the boy's rapid-fire words. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure y' do." Gary studies him with something that looks almost like pity. "Unless you've been hidin' abilities from us common folk, but I don' think y' have. You don' happen t' speak French, do y', Detective?"

"No. And I fail to see how that has any bearing on—"

"When I called out t' you jus' now, what language did I use?" There's an eagerness underlying Gary's words that James doesn't understand or particularly like.

"English." James answers automatically, trying to think back on the exact words.

Gary shakes his head.

"Spanish, then." Sometimes James can't tell the difference between Spanish and English when he's not paying attention, his birth-tongue and the one that he forces himself to use most often both easily understood. James can hear the annoyance in his own voice, but it's impossible to mask, not when he can also hear the blood pounding through his head with each beat of his heart.

"I don' speak Spanish. Least, not any that I'd throw toward you 'less y' really got me mad." Gary considers for a moment before hurrying on. "I asked in French."

"And since when do you speak French?" James crosses his arms over his chest, raising one eyebrow as he stares down at the boy, trying to ignore the feeling of his hair attempting to stand on end on his arms and on the nape of his neck.

"For all o' twenty-fou' hours. I speak it really well, though." The boy rattles off a string of words that don't make sense.

Except, if he doesn't pay attention to the way the words sound, to the foreign syllables, but rather allows himself to simply absorb the noise… if he stops trying to think of it as a conversation and instead allows his mind to try to make sense of the words like it makes sense of the susurrus of a crowd, scanning for meaning in either of his languages without actually trying to process or understand each thread of dialogue…

Pain flares bright in his head, the threatening migraine crashing down with unexpected force, each beat of blood through his veins a hammerblow of agony. Nausea curls through his guts, forces his mouth open, and he's breathing hard and bent double as he attempts not to throw up the coffee and half a bagel that had been provided for breakfast.

(_He will make the world burn…_)

"Oh, no. Um… detective?" A small hand touches his elbow tentatively. "Uh, are you all righ'? I'm sorry. I didn' even think... but it's really not that scary, jus' talk t' 'im, you'll find you've got an awful lot in common and it makes it hurt less. 'S actually kind o' cool."

The pain and nausea fade just as rapidly as they had struck, and James straightens, peering uneasily at the child still babbling at his side. "I still have no idea what you're talking about, Gary. Though if you're involved with the Independents—"

"They bought me supper. They've been helpin' my sister out for the last few months. Cori bought me clothes—couple different sets. More'n that, they want to _fix_ things, just like they said, and they've actually got lots o' cool ideas when they explain it. I like 'em. And they aren't responsible for all this. They're just as ticked off 'bout it as you are." Gary stares at the words burned deep into the side of the building. "More ticked off, I think. So don't listen t' anythin' the shadow says, if you see it, and don' go thinkin' they're bad guys. Okay?"

"They're trying to buy your loyalty." James frowns, taking in the eagerness in the boy's expression, his stomach sinking as he realizes what it is. "They don't care for you any more than your parents do. They're using your needs in order to get you on their side."

"Yeah? Maybe." The boy shrugs. "I don' think so, though. There're lot o' people who pretend, but I don' think these guys are. If you remembered, then you'd understand, but you don' remember properly, do you? And it hurts you to try."

"Remember _what_?" James can't keep the exasperation from his voice—exasperation built on desperation, because he doesn't understand what's happening to him. Why does his head hurt like this? Why is it so hard to think?

Surely it's just exhaustion. Surely it's just too many nights with too many bad dreams—

(_There is no other way out than death. Drowning._)

And if he can finish his job and get some sleep, everything will be fine.

If he can do his job, and do it well, everything will be fine.

"I don' think I should talk about it here." Gary speaks slowly, shifting from foot to foot. "But you're not alone, Santiago. No matter what that creepy-crawly monster tries to tell you, no matter how scary and weird it is, you're not alone. I'll be stayin' with my sister at one o' the Independents places. Same buildin' as my folk's place. I'll give you his numbah—call us, we'll help. 'Cause they're the good guys, detective, no matter what you find in that buildin'."

Gary rattles off a phone number, turns, and scampers off before James can grab him again.

James finds himself repeating the phone number as he enters it into his phone. He doesn't understand the boy's rambling about shadows. He doesn't understand what the boy had been going on about with his talk of French and being able to speak it now. Information is information, though.

(_He will make the world burn…_)

And any information that might get him closer to the Independents and, perhaps, evidence of their complicity in this madness is not something he will risk losing.

XXX

"I don't know how to do this." Mark finds his feet freezing as he attempts to coax them forward into the food court.

It really shouldn't be this difficult. All he does is take three steps forward, through the doors looming in front of him, and Cosette will be there—_Courtney_—and he'll just need to talk with her and get to know her and try not to convince her that he's a crazy man.

The lack of sleep last night is not helping him think clearly, and he finds himself shaking his head and backing away from the door once more. "No, I don't think I can do this."

Erin sighs. "You want t' go home? Now? Aftah we went and got y' all prettied up for her?"

"It could be dangerous for her! It's better if we just call it off and wait until after the shadow's taken care of, one way or another."

"Considerin' one ways probably goin' t' end with us all bein' soulless husks and possibly half the city burned down, I don' think it's a good plan." Erin grins, and Mark's not sure he likes the look very much. "Now, come on. I know that Marius isn't going to let you walk away without talking to her, and I know that you don't really want to leave. Stop bein' a coward."

"I am not being a coward! I'm being _reasonable_—"

"Well, we're goin' t' go be reasonable at Corsette." Grabbing his arm, Erin drags him forward, through the doors into the food court.

For a moment he thinks that maybe Cosette—_Courtney_—isn't there. Maybe she's running late, or decided that she doesn't actually want to meet them,or realized that there was something off about the way he spoke to her yesterday. Then his eyes scan over the throng and land on her, and his heart seems to leap up into his throat.

_Cosette._ Her name in Marius' thoughts is a prayer. _Oh, Cosette, how I've missed you._

She's dressed in a different outfit from yesterday, but it's a very similar style, a long loose skirt and a beautiful pale brown blouse, her cross necklace glinting on her chest. She's standing between the lines to order food and the seating area, watching the door, and he knows the moment she recognizes him. A smile breaks across her face like the dawning of day after the longest night, and she raises one hand in eager greeting.

Erin clearly sees her then, dragging them across the room, depositing Mark neatly in front of Cosette. Smiling at the other woman, Erin gives a mock-curtsy. "Hello. You must be Courtney. Mark's already told me a great deal about you, and it's very nice to make your acquaintance. I'm Erin."

"Hi." Courtney's eyes flick from Erin to Mark and then back to Erin, and she pushes a strand of gorgeous hair back behind her left ear as her head ducks self-consciously. "I'm Courtney, like you said. I… don't know how Mark managed to say much about me, seeing as we only met briefly yesterday, but I hope it's all been pleasant."

"Erin's only teasing." Mark smiles at Courtney, fighting the urge to turn and glare at Erin. "I told her about you yesterday, and she was very happy to come meet you today."

"Ah." Courtney relaxes again, an easy smile on her face as she looks between the two of them. "Are you both students, then?"

Erin snorts. "No. I couldn' afford it, though I could prob'ly pass the tests."

Mark winces, finding no easy way around the topic that Erin's raised, deciding to ignore it instead. "Erin's a friend. She and I are involved with a group on campus, the Independents. That's why we were both there yesterday."

"All right." Courtney blinks. "Are there many groups that have members both on and off-campus?"

"The Independents have a lot of far-reachin' goals. They needed some contacts outside the university to help with some of them." The smile on Erin's face seems more genuine now, as she discusses the others. "They're an interestin' lot. You should make Mark introduce you to them sometime."

Introduce Cosette to the Independents.

Introduce Cosette to the center of the madness and horror that's haunting them—to _Eric_, to a man the shadow almost killed.

He needs to respond. He needs to come up with an answer that won't be simply him screaming that he won't do it, his own horror mixing with Marius' terror of ever putting Cosette in danger. He can't think of anything, though, and instead ends up staring in wide-eyed fear at Cosette's face.

"Not… not right now, though." Erin's hand finds his, gives it a quick squeeze as Erin backs them away from that metaphorical cliff. "We were going to have lunch first, then Mark here was goin' to show us how a college-boy has fun during the day, right?"

"Right." It feels as though someone has just repealed a death sentence, and Mark finds himself drawing a shaky breath. "Food first, then exploring. Sound good to you?"

"Sounds great." Courtney smiles again, and for just a few seconds all's right with the world.

XXX

Her new friends are strange.

Courtney knows that after barely thirty seconds of speaking with them, and it's not an opinion that changes as the day continues.

It's a pleasant kind of strangeness, though. Mark is quiet intensity, his eyes seeming to burn through whatever he's looking at when they actually focus on anything, though frequently he seems to be off in a world of his own. His speech is sometimes slow and awkward, as though he's considering his word choices carefully, but at others it's fast and sloppy and utterly endearing. Everything about him is endearing, really, and she finds herself smiling a great deal as she watches him. It's strange, but it almost feels as though she knows him, as though she's seen someone very much like him before and cared deeply for them.

Erin, on the other hand, is all dry humor and sharp wit and sharper edges. She seems to dance between teasing Mark and assisting him, sometimes doing both in the same breath, and Courtney finds herself fascinated by the young woman. How did someone like Erin, so different from Mark, end up so close to him? What's the relationship between the two of them? Why does Erin sometimes look at Courtney as though she hates her, and at other times as though she pities her, but most often as though she's fascinated by or entertained by her?

Whatever oddness it is that surrounds the two of them, though, it seems to wrap around Courtney with ease, and she finds herself laughing and grinning along with them as Mark gives his tour.

The gardens on campus are beautiful.

The art museum is a place of strange paintings and stranger sculptures, but between her own curiosity and Erin's running commentary it's quite enjoyable.

The library is an enormous, imposing structure that she loves immediately. There's something soothing and peaceful about anywhere dedicated to books, and she finds herself darting from shelf to shelf in delight, Erin a shadow at her heels.

"You like books?" Erin asks the question while Mark watches her peruse the books, a gentle smile on his face.

"Yes." Courtney's earliest memory involves books, her mother reading to her, and though there are things about the memory she doesn't like—hunger, cold—it's still a pleasant one. She has many more memories of reading with both her father and her mother, and books have always been something she loves, a way to understand and experience life outside her own small world. "You?"

"Very much." Erin takes her hand, and Courtney finds herself being dragged through the stacks. It's a tour she enjoys, though, just as she enjoys the smile on Erin's face when Erin hands Mark a small armful of books to check out.

The tour continues. The student union is daunting, a warren of rooms and hallways and staircases that emerge in strange places, but Mark points out where to buy blue books, treats both her and Erin to ice cream, and then insists on paying for them to play a game of bowling in the basement that Courtney thoroughly enjoys.

Other buildings go by in a blur, but she's got a fairly decent idea of where her classes will be when they finally cross the border of campus and emerge back into the city proper. It's a part of the city dedicated to the university, with food stores and book shops lining the road, but it's still got a vastly different feel from the atmosphere of campus.

"And that's most of what you'll need to know." Mark smiles at her, a tentative, hopeful expression. "If I've been thoroughly confusing, just tell me."

"You have been an exceptional and gracious host." Courtney can feel a blush rising to her cheeks as his smile broadens. "In all seriousness, thank you. I really appreciate you taking the time to show me around. It's been a lot of fun."

"There's a lot more we could do." Mark's eagerness is obvious in his tone and in his body language, his hands moving rapidly. "We could go look for posters to decorate your room with—there's a neat little store just down that way. We could help you pick up books for classes, if you wanted. We could do something else fun—there's a movie theatre not too far that way, or we could go to one of the sports arenas on campus—ah, we could go ice skating if—"

"No." Erin cuts him off, indignation clear in her voice. "I don't want to go ice skating right now."

Mark blinks at her, clearly thrown off balance by the interjection. "All right. No ice skating. That still leaves plenty of other options. What sounds appealing?"

Glancing at her watch, Courtney hesitates. It's already fairly late in the afternoon, approaching five, and her parents will be expecting her to be home for dinner. Convincing Papa that college was safe had been difficult enough without her running late on her second day. Not that she couldn't call them and tell them she would be a little late, but—

"I'm thirsty, Mark. Would you mind buying me some tea?" Erin points to a small café just down the street. It's clearly popular with students, a line stretching almost out the door.

Mark looks non-plussed at the suggestion, then gives a small sigh and a shrug. "Sure. I could get you both something, if you wanted. We can start there, and—"

Studying Erin's exasperated frown, Courtney has a strong suspicion that thirst isn't the primary reason for sending Mark away. "I could use a drink, too. Here, I'll pay this time. I don't know if I want to stand in such a crowd, though. Would you mind buying drinks and bringing them back here?"

Mark hesitates barely a second before nodding and taking their orders. He refuses to take the money; she slips it into the back pocket of his exceedingly well-fitting slacks as soon as he turns away, earning a laugh from Erin and a blush from Mark.

She finds herself blushing, as well, wondering at where the audacity to do something like that came from. Why does she react to Mark as though she knows him, as though they've been friends for years rather than hours?

"Your family 'as money to burn, then?" Erin asks the question as Mark sidles across the street.

"No. Well, I mean… yes, in a way. It hasn't always been so, but my father's been very good at investing and keeping track of finances throughout his life, and so we're… comfortably well off right now. Well enough for me to go to college. Well enough for Papa and Mama to donate to charity. And well enough for me to buy a drink for friends, even if ridiculously charming young chivalrists don't want me to." Courtney finds her eyes dropping away from Erin's too-direct gaze. "You don't mind that I did, do you?"

"No." Erin shrugs. "If you've got the money, I don't see why you should be unhappy. And I'm not going to purposefully make myself unhappy. Buy me what you want. Just remember that you can't buy _me_."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Courtney stares at the other young woman in dismay. "It's really no more than I'd do for any of my other friends."

"Yeah? You know, I believe you. You always turn out good, if given just half a chance. Me…" Erin's smile has a hint of bitterness now, something that Courtney hasn't seen from her before. "I'm me. I guess that's all there is to say about that."

"I… don't understand." Frowning, Courtney tries to find where she lost track of this strange conversation.

"There's something you should know about Mark." Erin sidles closer, her voice falling to a conspiratorial tone. "Something other than what you've already figured out, I'm sure, which is that he's sweet and rather oblivious but still charming. He thinks you're the reincarnation of his dead girlfriend. That's why he's bein' so nice to you."

Courtney stares at Erin, certain she must have heard wrong. "He thinks… I'm his reincarnated girlfriend?"

"Uh huh." Erin shrugs and smiles. "He's a good guy, but he's got some bizarre ideas, and you've somehow ended up at the center of this particular fantasy of his. That's why he hasn't been able to shut up about you since he saw you yesterday. I'm not sayin' he'd do anything untoward to you or some such, but it is a little bit… weird."

"I… um…" Courtney stutters, searching for the right words, the right response, her eyes darting toward the shop that Mark disappeared into. "I don't… you're sure?"

"Very sure." Erin shrugs, as though it doesn't matter. "It doesn't matter to me. I just thought you should know, before things between the two of you get too much more complicated."

Courtney can feel her face flushing bright red, her heart-rate speeding up as she attempts to adjust her view of Mark to include this new piece of information. It makes sense, in a strange way. That's why he had stared at her so intently, on multiple occasions. That's why he's been so kind and solicitous to her. How is she supposed to respond to it, though?

Surely thinking someone you just met is the reincarnation of your past girlfriend was a sign of… something. Some kind of psychiatric problem, and she really doesn't want to be at the center of anyone's delusions but she also doesn't want to abandon him if he needs help…

"The Independents and me are taking care of Mark." Erin smiles, which Courtney finds completely inappropriate to the situation. "We won't let anything happen to him—or to you. Like I said, he's not dangerous, just weird. If you want to run away, though, I understand completely."

"I… don't know." Biting down hard on her lip, Cosette shakes her head. "I… need time to think about this. Does he know that you told me?"

"No. He wanted me to keep it secret, but I thought it wasn' fair for you not t' know." Erin draws another deep breath, her eyes going to the café, and when she speaks again her accent has faded almost entirely aware. "He's been wonderful for me—him and those he's introduced me to. Believe me, I won't hurt him. Death isn't actually an escape, anyway. So do whatever you need to do, and leave Mark to me."

"Death? Hurt him?" Courtney finds her left hand has risen, is grasping the cross her father gave her firmly between her fingers. She blinks, tears rising in her eyes as she tries to wrap her mind around what's going on. She'd been enjoying herself so thoroughly. How did it suddenly end up like this? "Why would you even feel you needed to _say_ something like that? Erin, I don't understand."

Erin's lips pull back from her teeth in a grimace that causes Courtney to take a step away from then other woman. Then Erin closes her eyes, draws a deep breath, and smiles, one of the loneliest expressions Courtney's ever seen in her life. "No. You wouldn't. Just… it's hard to explain to people, all right? But he does think you're his dead girlfriend from two hundred years ago come back, and it's why he's so… so…"

"Yes." Courtney frowns. "I know what you mean by _that_. I… I'm going to need some time to think about this."

Time to think about whether or not she believes Erin's story. Time to think about what she wants to do if she does believe it. Time to think about what Erin's other statements could mean.

"Here." Mark's voice causes her to jump. He smiles apologetically as he holds out her drink, and then the smile falters. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes. It's fine. I had just lost track of the time." Courtney finds herself smiling at Mark despite her reservations. It would be impossible not to. "My father's going to be coming to pick me up shortly, so I can have dinner with him and my mother."

"You're not living on campus?" Mark hands Erin her drink, his eyes never leaving Courtney.

"No. Not yet, at least. Our house is close enough that commuting's feasible, and less expensive. We may be able to afford college, but it's still… pricey." There's a surreal feeling to this conversation now, normalcy overlying something distinctly not normal, and Courtney finds her eyes darting toward Erin. "I've enjoyed the day, though. I've really liked getting to meet both of you."

"I'm glad." Mark's smile is a flash of light in the darkness, pure joy. "We'll have to do it again. There's a lot more that we can do around campus, and then there are events that come through, musicians and plays and musicals… I'll have to see if anything's coming soon."

"We'll see. Thank you, again." Courtney holds out her hand. Mark takes it, and for a moment she thinks he's going to kiss the back, but then he blushes, clasps her fingers tightly for a quick shake, and lets her go.

Erin grabs her hand as soon as Mark lets it go. "Best o' luck t' you in classes."

"Thank you." Smiling from Mark to Erin, Courtney takes a step back. "I'll be in touch."

She walks away, but their farewells seem to ring in her ears long after she's out of earshot, a haunting echo that she doesn't know if she wants to run away from or toward.

XXX

Erin and Mark arrive at Eric's apartment hours after Cori but before the rest of the Independents. Mark's the one who opens the door after Grant calls for them to enter, Mark's face a mask of nervousness as he sidles into the room; Erin looks slightly more at ease, but her eyes don't meet Eric's for long before sliding away.

Eric watches the two of them. He considers saying something, but he doesn't know what words would be proper, so he keeps his mouth closed. Cori greets the others, instead, and Grant gives a half-hearted welcome from his spot sprawled with a sketchbook in the corner of the room. The shower had just started running less than a minute ago, so it's going to be a while before Con rejoins them.

"So." Mark speaks into the awkward silence. "You're not in the hospital anymore."

It's a simple statement of fact, but it's clear that Mark expects some kind of answer, so Eric forces his mind to actually communicate with his mouth and bring forth words. "I checked myself out. There's nothing they could do for me there, and I want to be somewhere I can speak freely."

Not that he's been doing much talking. He's tried. Settling down with Cori and Con to work had been his idea, an idea the other two had acquiesced to after a long shared look, but it hadn't gone like Eric had hoped. Words that usually came easily to him seemed to get jumbled, to lose their power and flare, and they'd barely gotten anything done after two hours. That was when Cori suggested Con go take a shower before the general meeting, and Eric, seeing Con's face still drawn with exhaustion despite a few hours' worth of snatched sleep, hadn't found any heart with which to protest. Mark and Erin had knocked at the door shortly afterwards, and Eric forces his head to rise from where it had come to rest on his drawn-up knees, his eye to focus on his visitors. When had his feet ended up under him on the couch, anyway, his knees in front of his chest as though they were some kind of defensive screen?

"You look… better." Mark's voice rises on the last word, and his eyes flit to Cori's, panic all too obvious in his expression.

"I'm doing better. We both are. We'll be fine." Eric tries to smile, then gives up, knowing the expression looks forced. He's doing much better than he had been last evening or this morning, that much is categorically true, and so is Enjolras.

_Right?_ He directs the question toward Enjolras, trying to touch the revolutionary's thoughts without letting things become… tangled like they had before. _We're both doing all right?_

It takes Enjolras a few seconds to answer, and Eric edges his thoughts closer to Enjolras' until he can feel an amplified mirror of his own pain and disorientation coming from the other man. Whatever the shadow did to them, it hurt them both, in the same way, and hours of fighting to stay the only awake personalities only made things worse.

_I…_ Enjolras considers his words, his English thickly accented again. _I will be fine. The pain is fading, I think._

_Good._ Eric sighs, his arms hugging his knees tighter to his chest, a burst of defensive anger threading through his mind. Eric hates hearing Enjolras like this… just as he's certain that Con and Cori and Grant hate seeing _him_ like this. He's doing the best that he can, though, and he's certain that Enjolras is as well. _Tell me if you need anything._

There's a sense of assent from Enjolras, not actually voiced, and Enjolras' thoughts fade back again to a quiet, meandering susurrus that Eric can't understand without a great deal of effort.

Eric's body tenses, his knuckles turning white as his fingers clench hard on his pants. It's how Enjolras has been all afternoon, withdrawn and drifting, and Eric understands it but he _hates it_. Enjolras is supposed to be eager, a source of prowling, vibrant energy, always pushing at the boundaries of Eric's mind, always reaching for an explanation and an understanding of Eric's world, always interested in comprehending and attempting to assist Eric in his work.

_I'm sorry._ Enjolras' words are a quiet whisper, not quite dispirited but far closer to it than Eric likes. _I can attempt to focus more, if you want._

_No. Please don't apologize to me. I want you to rest. I want you to heal._ It would be easier for Enjolras to rest if they could sleep, but sleep had brought only nightmares, though no shadow-monsters came to finish the job.

None of the Independents have reported seeing the shadow since last night, and Eric knows it should make him glad but it doesn't. He wants to finish this. He wants to fight, to show that he hasn't been beaten, that he hasn't been _broken_, to prove that the nightmares and the confusion and the feeling of _emptiness _and _violation_ that the beast's saddled him with are just temporary.

How did the shadow do this to him? How did it manage to _damage_ them this badly?

How did it keep Eric away from Enjolras until it was too late?

_I'm sorry._ Eric reaches out to Enjolras, pushing as close to Enjolras' thoughts as he can without hurting or scaring the other man. _If I could have stopped it, if I could have saved you, I would. You know that, right? I wouldn't have allowed it to hurt you like this if I could have stopped it._

_I know, Eric. Whatever our differences in the past, we're allies now. Friends, even, I'd like to think._ Enjolras would smile, if he had control of their body, and though it would be a faint expression, it would be a true one. _Neither of us is to blame, as Combeferre and Courfeyrac keep saying, and I suppose we should stop apologizing to each other as well as to them._

_Yes. We should._ Eric bites down hard on his lip. _We will. We'll be fine. You'll be fine. I'll be fine._

Forcing his eyes to focus again on those around him, his thoughts to connect with his body, Eric finds that Cori's wrapped an arm around his shoulders and is talking with Mark and Erin as though this were a normal day, plying Mark about his upcoming classes, querying Erin about what books she's picked up recently. Mark's eyes keep darting from Cori to Eric, though, uneasiness written in every line of his body. Grant's pencil has stopped moving on his sketchpad again, and Eric risks a quick glance at him, confirming that utter misery and abject horror and burning anger are once again written starkly across Grant's face.

Erin's eyes lock with Eric's, hold tight, and it isn't anger or fear or sorrow that he sees in her face but understanding and sympathy.

"Erin." Eric finds his mouth blurting out her name without his intending it to.

Trailing off as though he had meant to end his half of the conversation there, Cori gazes expectantly at Eric.

How does he phrase this? How does he ask his questions without upsetting the others, without making the fear in Grant's eyes worse? He doesn't want Grant to be afraid. He wants Grant to be bold, strong, determined, as he had been when standing beside Enjolras at the end, as he had been when holding to Eric's hand last night, refusing to let them be separated.

"Grant, Mark, why don't we go see what we can make for dinner for all of us?" Cori's hand squeezes Eric's shoulder before releasing him as Cori bounces to his feet.

For a moment Eric thinks Mark's going to protest. Then Mark mouths something to himself, nods as though in understanding, and follows Cori to the kitchen, Grant a silent shadow to them.

Erin stands, slides onto the opposite side of the couch from Eric, and takes up a position very similar to his, her knees in front of her chest, her hand clasped over them. "The pain fades, if that's what you wanted to ask. Slowly, but it fades."

Eric inclines his head. "With the bruise?"

"Yeah. More or less." Erin glances away, toward Mark in the kitchen. "I don' know how similar you'll be t' me, though. You're way worse off 'n I was. It didn' get as much of whatever it takes from me as it got from you."

Soul. Center. Core. Whatever they call it, whatever name they use, the essence of who they are has been touched, plundered, and it's a terrible feeling, made worse by the possibilities of what's been _done_ with that essence. "You and Mark saw about the fires?"

"Yeah." Erin hesitates. "We… weren't sure what they have to do with us, though. I mean, there's the French words, but that's… unless…"

"My words. My handwriting." Eric rests his head on his knees, his eyes closing. "Con's got… theories. Hypotheses. The shadow hasn't been able to interact with the physical world until now. It could hurt us in the dreams, and sometimes that hurt would transfer over here, but last night… last night I had blood words written all over me, and I couldn't wake up, and it might have burned down part of the city. The fire started after I woke up, though, after… after it was done with me. So maybe it used what it took from me to set it. To cause it. To make the conflagration. To make the world burn."

"I suppose it's possible." Erin shrugs. "We're still fumblin' around with this. Why'd it start a fire with what it took from you, though, when it didn' do anythin' with what it took from me? Unless…"

The color drains from Erin's face abruptly, then slowly grows again, patches of angry red high on her cheeks as her jaw clenches tight.

"It told me…" Eric draws a deep breath. "During the encounter before this, when I hurt it, it told me that it would 'break me' when next we faced, even if it 'cost it that which it would rather not spend'. It—"

"You think it used me. You think it used what it took from me to—to—" Erin's breath rushes out in a fierce hiss. "What words? What words did you have on you?"

"Not just on me. In me. In my head—Enjolras' head—words and thoughts and feelings that didn't belong. _Hopeless. Die. Alone. Die with me._"

Erin hugs herself tightly. "Die with me. That's what Eponine thought she and Marius were going to do. Die on the barricades. Eric, I—"

"No apologies." Eric shakes his head. "Enjolras' and my new rule. If we can't apologize, you can't either."

"That's fine, because I wasn't goin' to apologize. I wouldn' ever have wanted somethin' like this t' happen t' you, but it wasn't me who did it. It might've used me, like people're always tryin' t' use me, but it wasn't _me_." Erin hesitates, biting down on her lip, hard.

The wrong part of the sentence catches in his mind, repeats, and Eric finds his mouth moving again without his permission. "You know that Mark and the rest of us aren't trying to use you. Right?"

"No. You're not. You're…" Erin sighs, the tension abruptly leaving her body. "You're good people. I never believed that was real, you know. Good people. Unselfish people. But you're really tryin', when you don't have to. You're really determined t' fix the world, when you could be just fine the way it is. You reach out, to me, to others, when you don' have to, and you _listen_, and this _monster_ dared t' use my soul against you. You've got t' get better, Eric, because we need to kill this thing deader 'n a politician's heart."

"I'm… working on it." He manages to smile, but he can't completely suppress the shudder that runs through him as his thoughts touch the aching, cold spots where the shadow tore through him.

Erin's hand reaches out slowly, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. "It showed Eponine a world where Marius died first. Where she lived and he died, when she wanted them both to die. It… it didn't have t' twist very hard to make a reality where we were guilty, where its hatred and despair could find an easy way down t' our soul. I'm bettin' it had t' work a lot harder with you. I'm bettin' it had to twist things, lie about things. That's why it needed the extra power. You ain't got a selfish bone in your body, Eric, and I'm bettin' Enjolras was the same way. Maybe that'll help you, the fact that it lied."

"It always lies." Eric finds his eyebrows drawing together as he studies the young woman before him. He's not used to hearing Erin speak so openly. Usually she deflects questions about herself, her life, though she's always eager enough to give suggestions and ideas about what they're doing. "It always, always lies. It takes things that are beautiful and makes them ugly. If there is something… unpleasant in your past, in your memories, I can only imagine the horror it could craft from them."

"I used you." There's a faint accent to Erin's words, a wild, hungry look to her eyes that doesn't fit with the woman he's come to know and respect over the last few months. "I used your revolution to kill a man so he couldn't leave me. I didn't imagine we could live. I didn't imagine you could win. _I wanted him to die with me._ If he wouldn't speak with me, if he wouldn't live with me, I wanted him to die with me."

Eric finds himself staring, caught off guard by the confession, by the intensity, Eponine's fingers burning around his wrist. Enjolras' attention is caught, the older man sliding forward, though he leaves Eric in control of their words and their body for the moment. "What do you mean, you wanted him to speak with you?"

"I wanted…" Eponine lapses fully into French. "I wanted him to _talk_ with me. He did, a few times. He called me familiarly. He recognized my abilities. He helped me—didn't turn us in to the police, paid the family's rent, did other things. I showed him I was smart. I showed him I could read and write. I tried, I did, I tried to get him to simply continue talking to me, but all he had eyes for was that girl, no kindness in him aside from what he could show her, so I took his letter and I gave him the knowledge of where you were. I knew him so well, you know. I knew his friends, what few of them he had, and he wouldn't even speak familiarly with me anymore."

Eric borrows from Enjolras' knowledge of French, replying to the woman in the tongue she chose. "He treated you poorly, to dismiss the possibility of friendship in favor of romantic love. You treated him more poorly, keeping information from him, using the barricades for something besides the fight for freedom. He chose to go, though. You may have given him the push, but Marius chose his own path. All who fought and died there did so, including you. It is no light matter to elect to die, be it for another person or for a cause. All that, though, is in the past. It cannot be changed, and we have all paid in blood for any crimes we committed. Better to look forward, to chart a course for a brighter future, than to look behind and be bound up in the darkness of what has been."

For several long seconds Erin simply stares at him. It's seconds that Eric uses, gently disentangling his thoughts again from Enjolras', an almost giddy relief flowing through both of them. The words hadn't come easily, not as they might have yesterday, and they might not be entirely right, but they had still _come_.

Then Erin's arms are around his neck, her body pressed against his, and Eric finds himself freezing in place, uncertain what to do.

"Thank you." Erin speaks in English again as she pulls away. "Eric, you're a damn fool half the time and infuriatin' and so idealistic it'll make some people want t' kill kittens, but thank you. I'm glad I met you, this time. I'm glad I met Mark and I'm glad I met you and the rest of the Independents and I'm not goin' t' make the same mistake twice. I'm not. Even if he decides he doesn' care, I've got the rest o' you, and especially with the way Cori and Jona and Maria've been all over Gary I don' think I'm goin' to be losin' you anytime soon. So… it doesn' really matter what 'e does with her. I don' want 'im t' choose her, but it isn' my choice and it isn' her fault and I'm not goin' t' do anything like what Eponine did, though I understand why she did it."

Eric blinks at her. "I… don't think I understand."

"No, probably not. I've just got a phone call to make later, that's all." Erin grins, leaning back and taking both his hands in hers. Her expression slowly sobers. "What the shadow does is awful. It hurts, a deep and terrible hurt, but it fades. You're tough. You're strong. You're not used t' bein' hurt—to bein' used. Maybe, in a way, that makes this even harder for you. You'll get over it, though. Give yourself time, and you'll get over it."

They might not have time. The shadow might come for him again tonight, and he's not sure how he'll fare if it does.

He'll fight, though.

He'll fight to win, to protect his people and his purpose.

He smiles, and it doesn't feel forced. "We'll heal. All of us."

"Yeah." Erin lets his hands go, glances at the kitchen, and then hooks a thumb toward it. "You want t' go help them?"

Eric shakes his head, another smile pulling at his lips. "Not if you want it to actually taste good. I can follow directions if I need to, but Grant tends to keep me away from the kitchen when possible. Con, too. Cori sometimes lets me experiment, but now might not be the best time. Especially since there's still a very real chance of my passing out if I get overheated or overdo things. Who knew having enough blood was so important?"

"Right, then. You stay here, I'll go help them. Unless you want one of them back?"

"Grant." Eric knows that Grant will be the one most desperate to return to his side, and he'd prefer not to be alone still.

Erin disappears into the kitchen, and Grant appears a moment later, his expression flickering between hopeful and scared.

Eric pats the couch next to him. "Come sit with me?"

Grant does, settling down hesitantly, leaving a few inches of space between him and Eric.

Eric obliterates the distance, resting his head on Grant's shoulder, relishing the feel of Grant's body heat. He's too cold, still, probably a side effect of the blood loss, and it makes the physical contact that much more comforting.

Grant's arm settles slowly around Eric's shoulders, pulling him closer. "You're all right?"

"Getting there." Eric presses himself tighter to Grant's side. "You?"

"As long as you're here, I'm fine." Grant's hand teases at Eric's hair, a pleasant sensation.

It's another thing they'll need to work on. Grant needs to be fine on his own, without Eric, but now isn't the time to tell him that. Later, when the spectre of loss and death doesn't hang quite so close. "Did you want to put on a game until the others get here?"

Grant nods, rising and slipping a game into one of the game consoles. He doesn't ask what Eric wants, but as Grant settles back onto the couch a familiar loading screen brings a smile to Eric's face. "I thought you hated puzzle games."

"No, I hate playing against you because you're too good at them. You've got some kind of Jedi pattern recognition power that I am never going to be able to match. This will be a cooperative match, though." There's actually a bit of life and hope in Grant's smile as he hands the controller over to Eric. "Assuming you don't mind my flailing about on my turn and probably losing us the game."

"No. I like the idea of cooperative right now." Nestling himself up against Grant again, Eric starts the game, allowing his thoughts to focus on recognizing and using the patterns that appear on the screen while giving his soul a chance to heal.


End file.
